


How the Body Works

by Sam_Seven



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (ConVin is the main pairing but lot of Luthara too. They also deserve all the best.), (Hell I'm talking about 3 ships so deal with it!), Alternate Universe, Amanda was Connor's adoptive mother and Hank's second wife, Connor is hank's son, Denial of Feelings, Established Relationship, F/M, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Horror, Hospitalization, Human!Connor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Metamorphosis, Own translation from French, Smut, True Love, You know ghost stories and I'm a big fan of Clive Barker: so let's talk about Cyberghost Story okay, but something else does., in fact: androids don't exist, it's confuse, now for the real tags:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven
Summary: Detective Connor Anderson fell in love with prison guard Gavin Reed and did everything he could to get him out of this grueling environment. Six years later, despite the magnificent rank of lieutenant, Connor keeps feuding with his partner. In his bag, he hides the alliance he has bought for a month, unable to do his propose. And then, there is the accident. And finally, the transplant.Moodboard on Tumblr [coming soon]French version here.





	1. The accident

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Évolution Tactile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181481) by [Sam_Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven). 



> The "explicit" rating has never been so necessary: this fic is mostly a horror story, with romance. So besides the erotic scenes, there will also be horror scenes, so I really want to warn before.  
> I wouldn't be as trash as Clive Barker, even if he's my spiritual master, but here I am, trying to write some splatter-punk, and I finally post this first chapter written in October. I'll post it little by little, knowing that I'm still working on this fic and I have to translate it. As long as the Familiar Face trilogy is not over, the pace may be chaotic.  
> And as it's my own translation from French, sorry about the mistakes.
> 
> Just for your information, there are two main pairings: ConVin and LuthAra.  
> The Reed900 is something strange, and even I can't tell the difference from time to time, so... you'll call it as you like.
> 
> Beside it, everything will be fine.

June 3, 2038

Road to Detroit

 

You know, we should not mix professional and private life.

If you had met him in a bar, on a June evening, Gavin would have share this great wisdom with you, instead, he was brooding over it right now, hands on the wheel of the Ford Hybrid, trying to focus on the road dominated by lush chestnut trees. The date appeared on the dashboard. The background had adopted green tones, associating with late spring and bright leaves. Advances in technology meant that even cars were seasonally sensitive. What a progress—

In addition to the seatbelt, Connor had crossed his arms to protect himself, turning his head away, only to fix the landscape that was passing through the window. A series of trees grouped and piled up, mingling in their brown shades. He was only a few inches away from his companion, yet he felt terribly alone in that silence.

The absence of music made the atmosphere heavy, so much so that it seemed to settle on their heads.

Exasperated, Connor took a breath and finally broke this barrier of silent:

“Gavin—”

“Fuck you.”

The comeback was clear. Connor rolled his eyes. He was ready to give up, but Gavin insisted:

“Fuck both of you, you and your father.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know the meal would went this way.”

“Don’t try to talk bullshit: you perfectly knew how it was going to be. It wasn’t different of the other times, but no, you wanted us to go, and like usual, Hank opened his whiskey bottle, just to have some courage and say how I’m not good enough for his perfect son.”

Gavin had embarked on an exaggerated imitation of Hank.

Connor was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, so he could not decide, even though he had reproached his father for his alcoholism, a problem that was growing since the death of his second wife.

He tried to catch Gavin’s eyes, but the driver stubbornly watched the road. He had not been so diligent in the early days: the number of times he had ignored the road to kiss Connor, and, if the traffic was too dense, Gavin used to let one hand on the steering wheel, the other very high on the thigh of his man.

But when he sulked, he avoided contact.

“It hasn’t always been like that. But he cared so much about Amanda, he can’t get over—” _this stupid accident._ “You both got along so well—”

“Connor, I was just a fucking prison guard when you were a detective. For him, I never deserved you.”

Connor leaned over to take the bag stuck between his ankles, a mechanical gesture to remember what it contained, before placing it on his lap. Three weeks ago, he had bought a wedding ring and had been waiting for the right moment to propose. A sober and delicate gray gold ring, but the color matched Gavin’s eyes so well; Connor had not hesitated for a single second.

Now he had to choose the right moment. The perfect moment.

“Is my father’s opinion really important?” A silence. Connor was a better psychologist than his partner and he knew if he kept reasoning him, he could be forgiven for this catastrophic lunch. “I thought it was my opinion that mattered.”

He saw Gavin’s jaw moving, as if he were about to say something.

Connor wanted to touch him, but it was still too early: maybe after the mention of some memories, the driver would finally relax. It would be several more hours before he agreed to smile, but the wait would be worth it. Gavin had those contagious smiles—

“You know, the day I arrived at the prison, I wasn’t afraid: I’d prepared my interview and I’d already met several criminals, it wasn’t something new. But when I saw you, my God, I’ve got flustered.”

“You looked like a teacher’s little pet.”

His tone was dry but at least he answered, a sign that Connor was getting closer to their reconciliation.

“I had one goal that day, before I could enjoy the weekend: find out if this killer had another crime to confess. But as soon as I saw you, I said to myself ‘this man, I have to invite him to drink a coffee’. I was going to interview one of Michigan’s worst child killers, but you were way less obliging than today, and I was more anxious that you’d refuse my invitation than for the investigation itself.”

Gavin released his grip on the steering wheel a bit. He remembered that day, he remembered that when they first met, Connor was nothing more but some dumbass for him. That morning, if he had been told that seven years later, he would live with this Connor Anderson, Gavin would have burst out laughing. However, at the end of the day, the guard had been impressed by the audacity of the greenhorn who had asked if they could meet again, outside of work, and he had accepted, without imagining that this first date would be the first of a long series, the beginning of a long story.

“Still. Fuck you, you and your father.”

“Don’t try so hard: I know you love me.”

Connor slid his palm over Gavin’s thigh, reaching the inside. Then he leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, feeling the rough beard, enjoying the tickling sensation on his lips. For his part, he could not bear the sensation of having a beard, whether short or long, and shaved as often as possible.

He took out his cell phone:

“Do you want us to have diner, tonight? To forget what happened this noon?”

“A simple thing, then.”

His index swept the screen, looking for a compromise that could combine classic and casual. It was not for his manic side; as he looked down at the pictures, Conrad was trying to imagine himself, kneeling on one knee, asking for Gavin’s hand. Maybe he should wait until the end of dinner and make his proposal later? In this case, it would be better if the restaurant was near a park, a romantic point, something—

“Hold on, can you check if the Chinese restaurant has reopened? The one we had tried last winter. I fucking miss their lamb skewers.”

“Ah, I was looking for something Italian.”

There was nothing romantic about Asian fast food and Connor hoped to convince Gavin.

“So, pizza?”

“As you wish.” Connor sighed. _It has to be for later. I must find something in a nice place._

He would have liked to propose during the meal: now, the stress was going to ruin his appetite.

From Harsens Island, they would see the Detroit’s lights, and the place was enough quiet to make the moment intimate. If they used the car, they would be not too far from London: when they had spent a weekend in the Canadian city, they had visited pretty neighborhoods—

Connor was beginning to despair: he had to make up his mind in a few hours, and making decisions was not his forte.

He raised his head and, on the road that drawn a winding curve, among the stains of sun, a dog had just emerged from the undergrowth.

Connor screamed, but Gavin saw the wandering animal too late.

He swerved, making the trajectory of the car deviate.

The dog was safe, but at what cost?

Neither Gavin nor Connor understood what happened next. It was a chaos of leaves and bushes that adorned a slope that seemed endless. In the confusion, the driver had the stupid reflex to crush the brake pedal, while the vehicle began to roll over. The rustling around the car reminded of the wounded wings of a swarm of birds, it was like many raptors were causing the jolts, causing their loss.

The light in the forest above had never seemed so terrifying.

* * *

 

Gavin only woke up once the car was motionless, trapped in a ditch. The windshield had been pierced, like the window on Connor’s side, so leaves and pieces of branches had been invited upon the unconscious bodies.

Gavin tried to move, but he could not: invisible stalls held all his limbs.

He still managed to turn his head and opened his mouth to call his man, but his jaw was paralyzed, his tongue was just an inert muscle.

When he saw Connor, he suppressed a painful hiccup.

The head of his beloved dangled, weighed down by the loss of consciousness, by the blood that accumulated in his mouth and escaped in an almost black trickled. The branch of a tree had stuck in his shoulder, pinning it to the passenger seat.

Gavin sank again, stunned by a terrible pain in his temples. The same as that felt during a paroxysm of crying.

On the dashboard, a red light flashed in a nothingness that had succeeded the green hues; the technology had equipped all vehicles with emergency systems, contacting the nearest hospital through geolocation, sending the coordinates.

And the machine was calling for help for its owners.


	2. Interlude 1 — May 23, 2031

When Detective Anderson presented his badge at the prison reception, he was unable to take his eyes off the guardian in front of him.

He had crossed a corridor of yellow bare walls, livid of lifespan, while being followed by a guard who was clearing his throat, trying to get rid of phlegm. To ignore this noise, Connor had rehearsed the questions he would ask, the tracks he should leave.

Peter Price was a child killer who had been in prison for eight years: he had already been interrogated, several times in fact, so he knew police techniques well and was not at all impressionable.

And a month earlier, a family had moved to Ann Arbor, in Detroit, in a pretty little pad, and since they intended to occupy it for many years, they had started work very early. Some people have the chance to find fossils or relics by stirring the earth in their garden, but the Patterson had fallen on the friable bones of two children long forgotten.

By crossing the geographical and temporal elements, Peter Price was the ideal suspect, and Connor Anderson had to check if the Michigan Ogre had two more victims to confess or not.

In the back of his pocket, he had made an old American coin spinning, obeying a habit that was meant to reassure him, as if spinning this little brass disc could attract luck.

When he arrived at the counter, Connor did not know which luck his ritual had invoked, but it was violent enough to cling to his entrails, and it was now dazed that he was facing the guardian.

Forgetting his mission for a moment, the policeman was trying to guess the origin of the scar that crossed the man’s nose, still too shy to draw these gray eyes’ attention. The solid shoulders, adequate for the trade, were barely hunched as the guard inspected the identity card, and when he was done, he straightened up. He was smaller than Connor, but much stronger.

“Your gun.”

Connor jumped and did not understand right away, so the man, already worn patience, pointed to the detective’s belt.

“Your gun. There.”

“Ah yes, of course!”

The visitor put his revolver on the counter, taking his identity document back at the same time.

“Ok, follow me.”

In one of the principal corridors, daylight was streaked sometimes by bars, sometimes by fences. The neutral walls made the atmosphere stifling, and the fact that the sun was shackled, its rays handcuffed by the windows, did not help to feel comfortable.

Connor was not showing anything, especially since Gavin Reed was watching him, judging the quality of his impeccable shirt, the delicate pattern of his silk tie, the carefully ironed trousers, and the jacket despite the heat that returned with the month of May.

This guy was just a detective, not a fucking captain!

“You intend to seduce him with your clothes?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Price. You think if you’re showing you’re rolling in it, you’ll make him talk?”

Victim of a reflex, Connor tightened his tie; first habit of a long list that Gavin was going to discover little by little.

“With certain ranks, we’ve some sartorial constraints.”

“When you’re a Fed, maybe, but you’re just a detective.”

“And I’m only 30.”

Of course, Connor did not specify that his father was a lieutenant and that his career had been facilitated by this relationship. But it took more to impress the prison guard who did not even react.

“Have you worked here for a long time?”

“Since five years. The detainees know me: they avoid messing around when I’m here, so I’ll stay in the area, just in case your little mug makes them want to tease you.”

“That’s your hobby, then? Collecting scars?”

Connor grazed his own nose with his index finger, but he got no answer.

“What’s your name?”

“Jeez, you came to question Price or me?”

“The interview with Price is some professional business, I don’t really want to know him. But you, on the other hand, you interest me.”

“What?”

Gavin stared at him, but the detective kept an ingenuous air; his nut brown eyes may have been dark, they were full of sweetness. Facing this almost candid honesty, the guard let out a sneer. Ok, he had underestimated this guy: because of his clean side, Gavin had imagined the detective as timid, inexperienced, even naive, but here he was, flirting with one of the guards without stuttering, not even a little, right before questioning a child killer by himself.

At least he was trying his luck, and if he was as frank with Peter Price, he might get some answers—

The guard took out his card and passed it in front of a detector, unlocking another door, with bars again, that slid away. Near the cells, there was a smell of sweat from fur-free animals, bipedal beasts going round in circles in too small cages, and Connor preferred to distance himself, ignoring the rude remarks of the inmates. The room where Gavin was bringing him had, by chance, been ventilated, keeping only a faint smell of tired plaster.

“A colleague will bring Peter Price in a few minutes. I stay in the hallway, just behind, so if you need help, you call, get it?”

The implication of not playing heroes was heavy, almost contemptuous, but Connor nodded.

He settled down and put his tablet carefully right in front of him, putting effort to make it parallel to the edge of the table. Without even realizing it, his hands tightened the tie again, rustling the silk.

Peter Price did not look so presentable: the blond hair was held in a ponytail that ends between his shoulder blades. On the back of his hands, the veins swelled, even throbbing, sending blood to his round cheeks, pink like a baby’s. With his golden goat, Peter Price would have looked like a young Santa Claus ready to leave for his first round of happiness, but he had chosen the career of a horrible Krampus, beating to death kids who were no more than fifteen years old.

Before he took also place, Connor started the transcript application on the tablet: the law required that all exchanges must be recorded, but no one knew if it was really to protect the detainees or remove them from any rights of privacy.

The environment was hostile enough for the second reason to be, in fact, the right one.

Gavin Reed was someone who did not really want to inspire any kind of sympathy, especially at work, yet he always stuck to his word, then, as promised, he stayed in the hallway for the whole exchange that lasted almost an hour.

Sometimes he leaned against the door that was pierced by a Plexiglas window, to watch Price’s blond head, and above all, to signal his presence.

Price had not raped any of his victims, but the inmates did not make any difference between pedophiles or child killers: this criminal was a target on which some fathers could let off steam. The survival of the ogre between these walls made him forever grateful to the guards; a point Gavin reminded Price when he had been transferred here.

Since he was on the other side of the door, Gavin did not know how the detective was doing, but when the interview was over, Connor was frowning.

“Looks like you’re upset. He said your costume was fugly?”

“No, why would he say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s just that he didn’t confess anything, nothing new, yet I’m sure he’s hiding something. A shift will question the neighborhood again, with some photos to refresh their memory I guess.”

Gavin almost asked him why he explained that to him, before realizing the detective was thinking aloud while he was standing in the middle of the hall, his fists on his hips.

“Hey, come on: you’ll think better in your office, so stop standing there like a lemon. We too have some work to do.”

Still lost in thought, Connor walked the same corridors with the feeling of coming back empty-handed. This failure awoke no anger; just perplexity.

“Price’s a stupid jerk,” the guard said, “he’s a smartass, but as soon as he hears inmates in the next room, he starts to sweat as if he was in Hell.”

“Do you think it would be possible?”

“What would be possible?”

“If I came back, could we arrange for— reunite some inmates in the next room?”

Gavin laughed: the detective would not hesitate to exploit weaknesses, alright! This nerd was perhaps a determined cop.

“Yeah, it could be possible.”

Connor regained his smile, thanking him in advance.

Then they separated: the guard behind the counter, the policeman on the exit side. But Connor did not retrieve his weapon yet, staring at the one who had accompanied him. Since he was not making a move, Gavin stared at him; now that the policeman had caught his attention, he could jump in at the deep end:

“What time do you finish?”

“I never finish.”

“Even for a coffee?”

He might look as pitiful as a little Dachshund, he clung to his target like a bloodhound.

“For a coffee, I finish when I want.”

“Tomorrow at 6 pm, if it’s fine with you?”

“Because you drink coffee at 6 pm?”

“We can drink something else, if you want.”

Gavin pretended to think, knowing very well that nothing was waiting for him this weekend, knowing very well that the detective had, in fact, left a very good impression.

Without haste, he finally conceded:

“I was kidding: I drink coffee all the time. But for tomorrow, it will be on one condition: you pay.”

“It was my intention.”

Gavin scratched one brow just to hide a smile.

“By the way, the name’s Gavin.”


	3. Ceilings covered of spiders

Unknown date

Unknown place

 

Before even opening his eyes, Gavin began to search. His palms were expecting to hit a steering wheel, a dashboard— or a murderous branch maybe, but they were just scratching a stiff mattress.

In the confusion, he thought he still recognized the smell of pines, before understanding that it was only the imitation of forests diluted in bleach, the leaves amplified in aggressive disinfectant which served for the household.

The worst thing was the silence. So awful it left no room for Connor.

At this thought, Gavin awoke with a start, emerging in some pain that covered from his ankles to his neck. Opening his eyes did not release him however: the room was plunged into darkness, leaving him in the dark.

“Connor?”

The muscles of his throat and jaw resisted, but he managed to pronounce his anguish. He scanned the darkness to contemplate only his loneliness: there was no light, not the slightest diode.

On his skin, Gavin felt the evaporated contact of a paper blouse, which confirmed that he was in a hospital.

“Connor? Is anybody here?”

His tongue was as pasty as during hangovers. Had he been given medication? How long had he been lying there?

The patient manages to drag his legs, as heavy as they were, to the edge of the bed, leaving them hanging in the void. For a second, he would have doubted that a floor was hiding in the hollow of these dense shadows, yet he slid gently, carefully, until the soles of his feet touched a floor of linoleum.

The area around his kidneys was rusty, and the slightest movement gave the impression that needles came to hinder his vertebrae. The stiff pain made him shake.

While leaning on unseen furniture, Gavin began to explore the room. Although he was lost and worried, he only thought of Connor, with the urge to know how he was going, where he was, _if he was at least alive_. Just like the first day, Gavin played the role of protector.

Oh, of course, Connor was stronger than he seemed: his constant calm was not a weakness, but a barrier to a force that could surprise, just as his innocence was not naive, just optimistic. During the beginning of their relationship, Gavin had often been surprised, and the more he had been destabilized by this young detective, the more he clung to him. Before falling completely in love, in the most tender ways.

It was ironic when he thought about it: Gavin had been seized by this feeling at an exact time when Connor and he had fallen, literally fallen.

Despite the memory, Gavin had no desire to smile: in fear, all these moments of happiness were in fact hurtful, and they would turn his mourning gangrenous if Connor was—

His tense fingers finally found a wall, then, pushing his explorations, Gavin found a switch, already dreaming of light. His index finger pressed the button many times, yet nothing happened.

“Fuck this shit.”

Always blind, the patient continued his exploration.

So that was what detainees felt during the first nights? Lost between shadows? No wonder they used to blow a fuse in the isolation cells. Night makes the man wild and primitive.

In disappointment, Gavin punched the wall, regretting at once when a power of pain electrocuted his arm.

While massaging his forearm, he walked along the wall, his shoulder pressed against it, when, finally, he guessed the frame of a door. His hands, perhaps guided by the desire for freedom, found the grip the first time and Gavin pushed on, reassured by this first victory.

Hospital rooms were always full of machines, so why his own was empty? Maybe were they off? It was curious, but well, a hospital could have a power failure. Or he did not need them? Gavin imagined all sorts of reasons, because there was necessarily a logical explanation for this situation. But it was the same in the hallway: no noise, no light.

And Gavin still did not understand what was happening.

Fear made him forget the evils that haunted him, when he suddenly shouted:

“Is anybody here?!”

The echoes seemed to grow against the walls, so Gavin put his hands to his temples, then to his ears as his own words ricocheted and distorted to form others, ending in murmurs. It was absurd.

As he advanced, his hip hit a piece of furniture and an object fell with a thud. An object that began to roll. While spotting the sound, Gavin knelt down, then got on all fours, stirring the shadows until his thumb find the object.

A flashlight.

Before crying victory, Gavin preferred to make sure the battery was full, or the lamp would only be good to be swung at the other end of the corridor. In any case, it would serve for something.

Still kneeling on soft ground, Gavin tilted the button.

And a halo pierced the tall darkness.

Gavin let out a relieved sigh, ready to get back on his way, ready to explore all the rooms, all the areas of the hospital to find Connor.

But the lamp was still directed to the ceiling, and a detail caught Gavin’s attention. The beam intermingled with entanglements of cables and control panels, a curious place, because inaccessible. Although there were more curious: between the electric wires, like bats disturbed by light, little creatures with long legs sought to hide in the dark.

Gavin narrowed his eyes, trying to understand: these naked spiders did not have eight legs, but five.

They were human hands.

The man fell backward, moving the lamp that lit up other parts of the ceiling, revealing more sliced hands, yet animated by themselves. The multiplied shadows distorted the numbers, but Gavin would have sworn that there were forty at least, and the tips of the fingers were still tapping, as noisy as nocturnal tarantulas.

He managed to get up and ran down the hall, fearing that a hand would come off the ceiling and land on him like a spider would have done.

It was impossible to know who the owners were, and in any case they were not there: the corridors were empty hoses, only inhabited by endless cables.

Gavin did not know if it was the blood beating at his temples, or the fear that was harassing him, but he was certain to hear some murmurings, while no one was there to whisper them.

Nevertheless, the thought of Connor gave him courage.

At the end of the corridor, an open door let escape whimsical neon lights. Short of breath and confused, Gavin hesitated to get closer. He tightened his grip on the lamp that he extinguished, it would serve as a weapon from now on, then, he walked towards the entrance trying to make the least noise possible, although he was still deafened by the whispers.

The fact of being a policeman helped: while his back was brushing against the wall, he repeated the security measures, his fingers holding the lamp in a firm grip, ready to fight.

He finally entered the room, watching the surroundings, but Gavin froze. His heart missed a beat.

Two neon lights were fixed on the ceiling, and if the light was not reliable, emitting only livid flashes, it still lit a bare room, not a single machine. There was only one operating table in the middle, an old model where no mechanical arm was attached, and sitting on the black mattress, Connor.

Or rather, two Connors.

The first was sitting, eyes closed, hands pressed between knees, back extended and face raised towards the second, a perfect look-alike, who was standing up, eyelids also closed. He was leaning on the mattress, allowing the twin faces to kiss each other. There was nothing romantic about this contact: the one who was standing pressed his lips with the greed of hunger, ready to devour the seated one who opened his mouth, unaware of welcoming that ardent tongue that stirred against his own.

The Connor who was standing suddenly stood up, turning at the same time as his double to the intruder. They now had their eyelids open: the seated one had dark eyes, the same ones that Gavin had known for so long, while the one standing up had frightful irises, so cold that they looked like white steel.

“What the—”

Gavin felt a hand grip his shoulder and he jumped. With a brutal transition, this absurd dream evaporated at once and the patient stepped back; lying on a rough hospital bed again.

This time, the room was not in the dark and he was not alone: beside him, a young nurse was waiting, her palm against his shoulder. Her head hid a round ceiling lamp like a moon.

“Mr. Reed? Everything’s fine.”

It was a young woman, at least, according to the voice and what he could see from the face against the light: the lower of her face was covered with a pastel green surgical mask, the same color as the sober uniform. No name was indicated, not even a hospital logo. Total anonymity.

Two blue eyes were staring at him, enhanced by gray eyeshadow, almost black, and eyelashes stretched by mascara, so long that Gavin thought of daddy-longlegs’ legs—

He repressed a shiver and turned his head to his right: a huge window looked out on a mature forest that gave a sense of intimacy. The leaves were barely disturbed by a breeze. It was so easy to hear the birds sing, to imagine the smell of intact humus. It may have been just a selected video, as many hospitals were proposing today— so far, the establishment could be by the sea or in the city center.

When Gavin asked where they were, the nurse’s eyebrows twitched, expressing disappointment:

“Don’t you remember? Three days ago, you had a car accident. Since then, you’ve already woken up twice, but each time you ask me the same questions— This is disturbing, I’ll have to inform the doctor.”

In case she would go away, Gavin grabbed her wrist, almost aggressive:

“Where’s Connor? Tell me if he’s alive!”

She tried to move away, but the man clung to her wrist with the force of a lunatic.

“He’s alive! Mr. Anderson’s alive, I assure you, he’s right next door.” The fingers were clenching so hard that her wrist was burning, so she finally moaned. “He’s right next door, I swear, I’ll let you see him.”

On this promise, Gavin finally released his grip.

On the other side, an opaque window divided the room, all black, opposing the window bathed in light. The nurse activated a touch sensitive panel and set the degree of opacity to the minimum. Like a mist rising, the dark screen faded away.

Near Gavin’s bed, there were some machines, but it was nothing compared to Connor’s: the body seemed dead, and instead of flowers, it was screens that had grown, displaying a chaos of numbers and codes around. Like if his life depended on this invasive technology, since it measured the slightest beat, the least breathe, the slightest degree—

Yes, Connor was alive, but in the medical sense only.

Gavin straightened up and tried to see better, ready to get up before the nurse held him:

“Mr. Anderson’s fine: he was treated urgently. We don’t know the after-effects, but his life is out of danger. For the moment, he’s in an artificial coma so he doesn’t suffer.”

From where he was, Gavin could see at least that the shoulder, the one that had been pierced by the branch, was now held in a solid bandage.

Connor had his eyes closed, his chin up: a posture that reminded of the sick dream.

Gavin was unaware of this crap about interpretation in dreams, and Freud would have had too delusional theories, all he knew was that he was disgusted by a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, disturbed by Connor’s unconscious air. And it had given to this kiss an appearance of rape.

“You must rest, Mr. Reed: you wasn’t hurt badly, but you need rest. A lot of rest.”

“Leave the window this way. Even if you’ve some operations to do, I want to be able to see Connor.”

It was the order of a man gnawed by regrets, and if the nurse had refused, Gavin would have stood up to make her obeyed by using strong-arm tactics.

The young woman agreed, calming Gavin’s anger. Now he could watch over Connor, well, that was what he hoped for—


	4. Interlude 2 — May 24, 2031

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case: _Life is Strange_ 's spoilers in the chapter!

In fact, the tie was not just an occasional accessory for Detective Anderson: it was a daily dress code.

Even for simple errands, he never went out without having chosen in his collection, a treasure carefully sorted in a drawer. So far, he had gathered about thirty, and not a band of silk had funny motives: all were strict, sober, and above all, of excellent quality.

The one he was wearing that night was in indigo tones, streaked with very thin silver lines. A model too classic and that was clashing with the bar. Just like his attitude.

Connor was leaning on the counter, anxiously watching the time on his phone. He had been sitting there for only two minutes, but it seemed like his ordeal had been going on for hours. His jacket was still on his back and he had not ordered anything yet, in case Gavin would stand him up.

It was early; few customers were enjoying the happy hour, or rather, the golden hour. They drank their beer near the windows glowing red because of the end of the day, bathed in a warm light. A cat would have stretched in this heat, happy and fulfilled; the opposite of the detective who was worrying.

His only way to reassure himself was to manipulate this coin. In turn, Connor planted the thin rim in his palm, then slid it between his knuckles, mastering each swing thanks to the habit.

It was ridiculous, yeah, but it maintained the little trust he could felt, so it was out of the question to end that ritual.

When, at last, Gavin pushed the front door, the coin slipped and hit the counter surface with a crystalline resonance. Connor made it disappear in his pocket, as fast as if it was a shameful thing. He prepared to get up to greet the man, then changed his mind: he preferred to adopt a detached attitude, to be as nonchalant as Gavin Reed.

For tonight, the prison guard had swapped his shirt for a t-shirt. He had also stuck a leather jacket in the crook of his elbow, a sign that he planned to stay until late, when it could still be a little cool.

Under the left sleeve, some tentacles stretched, embedded in shades of gray in the skin. The tattooist had applied himself, giving movement in the curves, loading them with impressive details: one of the tentacles was pierced by an anchor, another was wrapped around a mast ready to break— so many little things that let imagine a multitude of stories of this still hidden octopus.

Connor stared at the tattoo, feeling the urge to pull that sleeve up to find out where those supple arms could lead him.

For his part, just like the day before, in the corridor of the prison, Gavin detailed Connor from head to toe, then he pointed at the outfit with a wave of the hand:

“In fact, whether it’s a date or to interview a prisoner, you dress the same way. Should I take it the wrong way or Price must be flattered?”

“No, it’s just my way of dressing.”

A little anxious, Connor smoothed his tie, but Gavin burst out laughing and invited him to sit at a table rather than at the counter. He preferred one-on-one exchanges.

As soon as he sat down, Connor asked:

“Has Peter Price spoken about me since my visit?”

“No, he didn’t talk about you, but now, let’s agree about something, Connor: we’re not talking about work. My weekend has just begun, so I forget everything about prison until Monday morning.”

It was also a date, but Gavin avoided specifying it, perhaps out of pride, perhaps because Connor seemed so serious that it did not really look like a date yet.

“I’m sorry, we don’t talk about work anymore.”

They placed an order and, a few moments later, a waiter put two half-pints of beer; pale ale and bitter.

Connor did not know what to talk about to avoid work, and the time to think, he sipped his drink, letting the bubbles tickle his upper lip.

To move him a bit, Gavin chuckled:

“Fuck, look at you, you look like a virgin before his first night.” Hearing it, Connor began to cough as the ale went down the wrong way. “Hey, don’t die on me! But you’re the one who invites me, and you’ve nothing to say to me?”

“In fact, since yesterday, I was wondering what made you change your mind? You’ve been as tough as Price, and yet you’ve agreed to see me again.”

“Yeah, remember to thank him next time you pass: if Price had spoken, maybe I wouldn’t have pity on you and I’d sent you to fuck yourself.”

Gavin looked down, a sign that he was lying, but Connor still noted the advice, laughing sincerely.

Then, he took advantage of the moment to satisfy his curiosity:

“By the way, what made this scar on your nose?”

“It was in a brawl, two years ago: five detainees had begun to fight, and when we tried to separate them, one of them released a blade and— _voilà_. It’s nothing: a colleague almost lost an eye.”

“Oh my God—”

“It’s okay. The guys apologized.” Gavin said, and the irony snatched a sorry laugh from Connor:

“I guess it was the least they can do— Well, we agreed not to talk about work, and finally, we come back to it.”

“When I can boast, it doesn’t bother me.” Looking around, Gavin suddenly noticed, “How do you know this bar? I didn’t know you were listening to Serj Tankian.”

Indeed, they were listening to _Harakiri_ at that moment, and the nasal voice of the singer revived memories. This old warning, turned into a hymn of love, still pinched the heart with desperate words.

“When was it released, already?”

They could not remember, so Gavin checked on his cell phone:

“The album was out on July 10, 2012.”

“Woah, I was 12 years old— I still remember my father: he was so happy that he made the CD play for months.”

“And do you like that kind of music?”

“My ringtone is _Knocking on heaven’s door_ , the Guns’ cover.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Then call me, you’ll see.”

Gavin made a call and Connor’s cell phone started vibrating on the corner of the table. He immediately recognized the chorus sung by Axl Rose’s broken voice.

_Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door._

_Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door._

He had so much trouble believing, he was speechless. Connor had to have humor for having this music ringing, not to mention that his pretty mouth did not match that of a cop, more than that of the angel who would open the door—

“I can’t believe it.”

“I look like some who only listens to Schubert, right?”

“Hell yeah.”

“In fact, I’m also listening to Schubert, but I prefer Tchaikovsky.”

“No, no, stop! You ruin all the charm!”

Charm.

So there was charm? Connor felt himself blush, and he blessed the darkness that was beginning to settle around them.

The sconces, naked bulbs concealed by cardboard cones, made the lights uncertain and deceived the senses. In the shadows, the perfumes grew, the laughter clashed in a hubbub as constant as the whispers of the sea. The ears could have drowned in these waves of sound, but Connor, like Gavin, focused on the voice of the other, attentive to the slightest anecdote.

The detective told the guard about all the hours he had spent in the front of his father’s car, an old 92 Lincoln Town Car, as gray as a November morning, listening to Skid Row, Metallica, Linkin Park, Slayer— Today, Connor understood why Hank was cutting some tracks, especially Alice Cooper’s ones, or why he was singing a kind of mumbo jumbo to censor some lyrics.

Hank Anderson had never worn any tie in his life, and even on the most formal occasions, he never made the effort to wear even a bow tie around his neck. Anyway, he had always preferred jeans and leather jackets, bringing a radical contrast with his beloved son.

And yet, they had in common this passion for this music.

“Okay, you’ve got crappy tastes for clothes, but for music, wow,” Gavin confessed, ordering a second beer.

“Thank you— Are you drinking again?”

“I came on foot,” Gavin defended, “when I go out, I never take the car, and the subway’s my excuse to drink over the limit. But don’t worry: you won’t have to stop me for public drunkenness.”

“I’m watching you closely.”

Connor, for his part, ordered a non-alcoholic beer.

Since they were talking about music, they kept going, evoking past, crossing common points, and Gavin was again surprised by another revelation: Connor was a player.

“I especially have a weakness for investigative games.”

“Ah! Now, I’m less surprised. Let me guess, you become a fan of these game with— _Heavy Rain_?”

“In my first game, I couldn’t save Shaun,” Connor confessed, “and I cried like a baby, first because I was sad, second because I was convinced that it meant that I’ll be a very bad investigator. I was barely 11 years old and my life was already ruined.”

Gavin burst out laughing, touched by this childish naivety.

As for him, he preferred horror, still remembering the hours walking in the cursed city of _Silent Hill_ , fleeing the possessed in _Alan Wake_ , discovering the remakes of _Resident Evil_ before playing the originals.

They mentioned several titles, sharing old opinions, before agreeing on an essential point: _Life is Strange_ was a fucking masterpiece.

“Let’s see if we can get along. Connor, moment of truth: who did you sacrifice, in the end?”

“I sacrificed Chloe, of course! You can’t kill an entire city for one person!”

“You’re too down-to-earth! I sacrificed Arcadia Bay, I didn’t gave a fuck.”

He continued to mock him, until Connor sighed:

“So that means we can’t get along?”

“I forgive you this youthful mistake, don’t worry.”

They went astray on delusional theories of a game released more than fifteen years ago. In the sharing of these memories, personal elements emerged: which studies they followed, some family stories, opinions— Each element revealed them a little more, like retired clothes.

Connor suddenly received an email, a simple notification about the latest articles in a magazine, and he was surprised to see that it was past nine o’clock. Even though the automatic subway was running all night, Connor suggested to Gavin drive him back: they still had so much to tell each other. Another night would be necessary, then yet another, and perhaps another—

The questioning of Peter Price might have been a failure; the policeman had enjoyed a very, very nice evening with the guard.

When they left the bar, they forgot the music and the other guests, resuming their discussion.

The street lights punctuated their way with silver halos, imitating full moons that diffuse calm glows. In the buildings, they could hear festive sounds, or at least their muffled echoes, but even the traffic seemed far away, giving the night a little rest, leaving the two men a little privacy.

Gavin and Connor took a turn and followed a path that ran along River Rouge. The parking lot was near a park, a little corner that the city had succeeded to preserve, keeping it green.

Detroit’s reputation had improved in recent years, when neighborhoods had enjoyed a newfound youth, becoming almost safe havens. Gavin had witnessed this evolution, but Connor was from Columbus, Ohio, and he was already a teenager when Hank was transferred to Detroit.

From time to time, the sound of a fog horn coming from the waters of the river surprised both of them. The silhouettes of the boats, drawn in ink, dragged on the wavelets with the slumber of a sleepwalker, and without noticing it, Gavin and Connor adopted the same slowness, strolling more than walking. A way to gain time—

“And your father remarries that Amanda when you were still a kid?”

“I was seven, yes, but everything was done gradually. She scared me, at first: she was always so serious, so right— But I ended up admiring her.”

According to the portrait Connor shown to him, Gavin imagined that Amanda Stern had become more than a mother: she had become a model. Gavin then thought he would probably get along better with Hank Anderson, already preferring this nonchalance Connor had mentioned.

This thought puzzled him all at once: why would he meet Connor’s parents? It was ridiculous; they only had known each other since the day before.

The parking lot was rather small, leaving room for ten vehicles, but only three were parked. And all had their tires had been punctured.

Even though he recognized his car, Connor was speechless, staring at the scrap tires on the black rims.

The silence lasted a few seconds, before Gavin burst out laughing because of nervousness.

“Fuck, Connor, I know, it’s not funny, but your face— I just can’t!”

“It never happened to me, why did they puncture the tires?”

Gavin kept laughing, and he put his arm around Connor’s shoulders, trying to bring some comfort.

“Some brats who wanted to have fun on a Saturday night, nothing more. Come on, I’m going to call a taxi.”

“I’ll pay the ride.”

“That’s fine! You’ll have to replace four tires, so I can spare you an extra expense.”

While waiting for the taxi, they settled on the hood of the disabled car, with, in front, the river. Connor leaned on the metal muzzle, and the rocking was scary: this nod confirmed that the tires were truly flat. He sighed.

They were closed to each other, the polyester blazer rubbing against the leather jacket, and then, as if the gesture had become natural, Gavin hugged him again. It was so easy when it was dark and there was nobody around.

“I’m sorry it’s ending so badly. Maybe you’ll be able to catch them?”

“Maybe, I will— It’s a shame.” Connor did not dare move, fearing that Gavin would move away. “But that doesn’t spoil the evening. Will there be a second one?”

On purpose, Gavin took his time to answer, and when he was about to do so, a screech on the gravel caught their attention.

The taxi had just stopped in the middle of the parking lot.

“I insist, Gavin, I pay the ride, maybe you’ll pay next time?”

“Clever, nice way to have a second date,” admired the guard with a burst of laughter. “Okay, next time, I’ll invite you.”

Connor tried to look serene, containing the joy that climbed up his throat and tickled his cheeks. Summer was early in his belly, shaking his whole body with a hot heat.

And later, when the taxi parked in the street of the first destination, the burns revived a little more.

Gavin opened the door, but before going out, he turned to Connor.

“You know, you were almost cute earlier.”

“When I found my car? I thought I was pretty ridiculous.”

“Yeah, you were. But cute as well.”

Then Gavin leaned forward, the tip of his nose barely touching Connor’s, and he waited for the rest, leaving the other one to make the decision. It was unexpected, and of course, Connor came close.

He was certain he might burn Gavin, and not to hurt him, he flattered his mouth with small kisses, cautious and patient. It was as surprising as it was exciting, and Gavin would have been tempted to get him out of the cab to drag him to his apartment.

But there would be another time for that, so he pulled away just enough to wish Connor a good night.

Connor who asked:

“See you soon?”

“See you soon.” He promised.


	5. The promise to cherish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how hospitals work in US, so I used the french system where you have hospitals depending on the government, and the private clinics, depending on "someone" (to a quick summary). If things work really differently in US, well, let's pretend it can be this way around 2038.  
> And it's only a detail for the story.

Unknown hospital

June 7, 2038

 

Gavin grabbed the handle of the straight razor to weigh it. He was not reassured by this tool he never use, so he began to wince. Still, a promise was a promise, so he brought the blade’s edge against Connor’s throat, and then, cautiously, slid the razor along the Adam’s apple to the point of the chin, shaving the beard that had begun to grow.

“I don’t know if you know what I’m doing,” Gavin grumbled, “but I’m proving you that I’m the ideal man. I know you hate having a beard, and those morons just give that thing when I asked if I could shave you. And here I am, busting your ass because I hate this fucking razor. Do you hear that? I hate that fucking razor and I’m still using it. If it’s not enough to prove that I love you—”

Connor was still unconscious, unable to react to Gavin’s humor, but it was said that people in a coma could hear and feel, so it was worth talking to him, to remind him that he was by his side.

“This morning, I was remembering our first date. Our story’s getting old, but when I think about your face again, when you were in front of your car, I still laugh!”

Gavin had looked away: the placid face of his lover was too painful to watch. Even staring at the bandage was easier. He had been assured that Connor would live, but the idea that a branch had crossed his shoulder continued to chill him.

Gavin managed to pull himself together, and resumed the shaving, carefully repeating his gesture.

“You must be more talented than me with that thing. You’ve always loved old things.” It was less fun to tease Connor when he could not answer. “I thought you’d buy one, with the new restrictions— would you use it if I pinched it? I could pinch it, you know.”

Old razors were back in fashion, especially since, for ecology reasons, single-use items had been banned. Straws, plastic dishes, disposable razors— everything had disappeared.

With his refusal to grow a beard, as short as it was, Connor had to handle his razor four to five times a week, but it was not one of those tools from another era. As Gavin was more careless, his gestures could be rough, so he had to redo several times to cut the hairs. And he insisted, gently, even if his muscles made him suffer.

His injuries had been benign: his back had suffered during the tumble, but some physiotherapy sessions should be enough. Apart from his shoulders that weighted heavy and headaches due to analgesics, he felt fine.

No, in fact, there was something else: he was exhausted, exhausted all day, so exhausted that he could not sleep.

Everything seemed so unreal since the accident, shared between the second state caused by the drugs and the impression that he and Connor were the only patients in this hospital. Gavin always saw the same nurse, this little blondie who had never revealed her face.

He heard no noise, never went out.

Were they survivors of a car accident? Or were they plague victims to be exiled?

“I can’t wait for you to wake up, Connor. I can’t wait to leave, to go back to our apartment, to go back to our life—”

Exactly a week ago, Connor and he had planned to spend the evening on the couch to watch _Watch Him_ , a movie they had kept postpone, too busy with their daily, although nowadays, movie theaters broadcast even in the living rooms. A bitter irony.

By the time Gavin went to the bathroom, before launching the movie, Connor had connected to his mailbox and, although he was on vacation, had read the messages from the police station.

Chris Miller was having trouble inquiring a burglary, and with the photos and the plans as attachment, the temptation had been too great: Connor had begun to respond to the group mail.

First day off, and he remained Lieutenant Anderson, unable to let it go.

When he had come back, Gavin had felt overwhelmed: mad to the whole police station, he had been ready to call Chris and tell him to fuck himself, to tell Connor that he was just a stupid jerk addicted to work, to slam the door and spend the night elsewhere.

He had wished his anger to be contagious, able to take away Connor’s usual calm, but the lieutenant had just stared at him in a sorry, even helpless way. And by giving up answering Gavin, Connor had ruined this moment of freedom: the romantic evening had turned into an icy confrontation.

The worst was this argument, without any shout of voice, had not been the first.

Since Connor had been promoted lieutenant, they lacked time for everything: for movies, novels, games, even for love.

Not only because of work, but because of Connor’s troubles.

Everyone has his demons, and Connor’s ones were fucking OCD.

In more precise clinical terms, Connor suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorders, yes, the degree was so ridiculously low, it did not require any psychological aftercare, but they made him too perfectionist.

The mania to tighten the tie could be bearable, just like the joy of having drawers equipped with dampers so that the cutlery remain impeccably arranged, this ritual with the coin too— as long as all these obsessions were isolated, but all together, they were getting Gavin tired.

Seven days back, Gavin’s anger had been violent, but today, it seemed to have exploded in another era. Today, he would have given anything to go back in time, return to this evening to pick other words, to make Connor understand that he had to give up this quest for perfection. For that, he would have repeated to him that he loved him, that he blessed their meeting, that he was still thinking with joy about that first evening in this bar, near Rouge River, where they had kissed with a respect that was close to admiration.

He would have given a lot to return to last Monday, and then, he would have kissed him the same way. The next day, when Hank would have called to ask them to come for lunch on Thursday noon, they would have been too tired to answer, still naked in the bed, and Gavin would have managed to convince Connor to postpone this meal, and they would have started to love each other under the sheet—

“I’m sorry, Connor, I regret everything that’s happened the last few months. You’re exhausting me for wanting to be perfect, wanting to be the impeccable lieutenant Connor Anderson— I want you to understand that you’re not a fucking machine, that you’re human, but you’re still obsessed and—”

The door of the room opened, and Gavin, in his jump, managed to control his wrist in order not to cut off Connor.

He was expecting to see this nurse again, but this time, the intruder was a man, tall and long-faced, too long with a too big mouth, which made his smile grotesque. He also wore this almond-colored uniform, but the doctor’s rank was confirmed by a long white coat. And once again, no name, no logo.

Gavin did not give him time to greet him:

“Where are we?”

“I was going to introduce myself, Mr. Reed, but if you prefer to know the place first—” the doctor had his hands buried in his pockets. “You’re not in a hospital; you’re actually in a private clinic, specializing in new surge—”

“Where are we exactly?” Gavin cut, the razor still clenched in his hand.

“We’re at 22 miles from Detroit, if that’s exact enough for you.”

Gavin did not want to laugh. Worse: this humor made him want to throw up.

Without getting rid of his grin, the intruder continued:

“I’m Dr. Kamski, and I’m at the head of this clinic. I personally took care of your spouse, Mr. Anderson— unless he’s named Mr. Reed?”

“What?”

“Since you arrived, I don’t know what to mark on his record: Connor Anderson or Connor Reed?”

“Write Anderson, we’re not married.”

“Oh really—?”

Kamski then took something out of his pocket. A little box, so small that it was ridiculous in the big pale palm. The deep blue velvet was an obvious clue about what it contained—

“That’s odd as I found that, in a satchel, when I was looking for papers to identify you.”

Gavin felt that his heart had just curled up between his ribs, stunned by surprise. And it fell when the long white fingers tilted the lid, revealing a simple but elegant alliance. Something Connor would have chosen.

Gavin turned back to Connor, as if he was going to hear a real proposal, as if he could give an answer.

“You didn’t know?”

There was not an ounce of regret in the doctor’s smile, and he was still straining the case, stealing Connor’s place.

“No, I did not know—” Gavin articulated.

“I’m sorry.”

_Really?_

With a quick gesture, Gavin tore the box from the icy hands, closing his fist on it so the surgeon could not look at it anymore. It was a private proof of love, but it would only be much later that Gavin would measure all the evilness of Dr. Kamski for betraying that secret.

“If you’ve nothing else to do, leave us alone.”

“Mr. Anderson seems to be fine, I’ll come back later.”

When the door closed, Gavin opened the case. Gold imitated the hue and coldness of steel, or rather; it imitated the color of _his_ eyes. The ring was still shining, as happy to finally shine for its owner.

Because, of course, that Gavin was its owner, of course he would have said yes.

But now, what should he do? To pretend that he knew nothing until Connor awoke? Wear the alliance to accept?

The alliance did not leave its nest, confining itself to it when the box was closed again.

His head suddenly heavy, Gavin put his cheek against the chest of the one who had wanted to be his husband. He was rocked by the breath, but it was too weak for him to feel good.

It was maybe for the best if Connor was not aware of anything, otherwise he would have heard Gavin burst into tears at that very moment, he would have heard him ask how long he had wanted to ask him, how long had he promised himself to cherish him until death?


	6. Interlude 3 — May 28, 2031

They had returned to this bar.

Like last time, it was Connor who had waited, the only difference being that he was much more confident that night. Leaning against the window, he did not check his cell, he did not manipulate the coin: his hands were simply crossed behind his back.

The window imitated a tattooist’s shop window during the 70’s: roses were carved in the mirror, surrounding the soft face of a girl wearing a _calavera_ makeup. Damaged stickers, representing skulls, complemented the theme, but instead of giving austere look to the bar, the exacerbated smiles of the deceased invited to enjoy life. After all, death had never been so noisy and joyful. Connor felt blessed: Guns N’Roses was his favorite band, and the bar was going to play their discography for all night.

From where he stood, he easily recognized _Perfect Crime_.

Connor had expected Gavin to arrive on foot, like last Saturday, but a city motorcycle had just parked a few meters away, at a place that was certainly not a parking spot, but the policeman did not care, laughing when the biker gave him a military salute.

“You were supposed to pay the taxi, tonight.”

“Don’t complain: no taxi, so I can save money for all the drinks you want.” Gavin patted the saddle where a helmet hung. “Besides, I bring you home, tonight.”

“What about the trick to exceed the authorized limit for alcohol?”

The biker shrugged: tonight, alcohol was not a priority, even though he had had a grueling day.

The end of spring was a dreadful season for prisons: the smell of sweat poisoned all the rooms and the prisoners were excited, victim of the blood that pulsed like armies of demons at their temples. Each look could be a pretext to fight, and Gavin and his colleagues could not just use some mere threats to calm the most violent damned.

In comparison, Connor’s unshakeable calm was as relaxing as an afternoon in Eden. The effect was also caused by his little angel face, certainly—

Now that Gavin had removed his helmet, Connor could lean over to kiss the corners of his mouth. The kind of kiss that blurred the boundaries of friendship and seduction.

Gavin sighed:

« Hey, Connor, if it’s really a date, then kiss me for real.”

He was still sitting on the saddle, challenging him, but that was what kept him in balance as Connor grabbed his collar. Even the leather moans with surprise. Gavin felt his head tilt back, unless it was an unconscious reflex to greet Connor’s mouth on his.

The lamp could be close, exposing them in a white halo, Gavin did not care: when the tongue dared to cross his lips, he plunged his hands into the back pockets of the young man’s jeans, pressing his palms against his ass.

Now, _that_ was a date.

The first notes of _14 Years_ began to ring out, the drums giving a heart rate to the air—

But did it really matter now, when neither of them intended to enter the bar?

Slowly, taking care not to stop the kiss, Connor stepped over the bike to take place, tightening the saddle between his thighs as if he pressed the side of the machine to motivate it to start.

Gavin laughed, teasing him a bit:

“What are you doing, sitting on my bike? We don’t go inside?”

“I love the Guns, but tonight, I’ll be fine.”

What was it called, already? Oh yeah, the puppy eyes effect. Connor was looking at him, his head tilted to the side, the angle making his eyes deep dark.

He could play the innocent, yet, he did not even blush.

While wondering what one night in Eden could offer, Gavin handed the second helmet to the tempter:

“And I guess you already have all the albums at your home?”

Connor confirmed with a simple smile.


	7. To be alone

Road to Detroit

June 9, 2038

 

The car was driving with great gentleness; there was not the slightest jolt.

Gavin felt lost between two worlds: he still bore the smell of the clinic, this disinfectant of artificial fir perfume, but he had his own clothes back, enjoying the texture of the jeans rather than the fragile paper.

The rays of the sun, through the window, were tingling his cheek, yet the low roof of the taxi froze on his back a claustrophobic feeling.

He did not know how long it took to get home. The address had been entered into the GPS of the automatic vehicle, but he could not see clear and was unable to decipher what was written on the screen.

His chest was an empty chest; the echoes of his heartbeat seemed to come from the clinic, perhaps to stay with Connor, refusing to be stuck in a body that was moving away.

It was odd: he could not even remember getting into the taxi.

Gavin carried his palms to his temples, where the blood was pulsating so loud it made him sick, and when his hands slipped, a cold contact made him jump.

The ring.

So, he was wearing it, after all.

In his pocket, he found the box now empty. Thanks to the brighter light of the morning, he managed to detail the case and finally saw how the velvet began to fuse. How long had Connor kept this secret? Why had he never proposed?

Because of their arguments? Did they make him regret this purchase?

Gavin began to stroke the velvet, and tried to restore it to its original shape, hoping that the effect would refer to the feelings that had also eroded.

The minutes were pieces of cotton, uncertain and fraying in a disorder without logic. The sun was stagnating on the horizon, as stable as a lamp fixed on an azure wall. How was it going to reach the west before the end of the day if it stayed there?

Dazing by the latest drug effects, Gavin did not immediately understand that the vehicle had stopped; he had not even recognized his own street, the one where Connor and he had lived for three years.

The walls of the first three floors of the building were of black brick, while the rest was white to better shine over the older houses, which were all around, witnesses of the old Detroit.

It was not a tall building, yet it made Gavin dizzy when he looked up to the top. On the ground, since it was mid-morning, the streets were almost deserted.

When the taxi pulled away, Gavin realized how big his shadow was, how lonely it was.

Still distressed, he rushed into the main hall, and heard the echoes of the vacuum cleaner that spent its life navigating on the blue carpet of the corridors; discreet creature who ran in front of the apartment doors, cleaning the path of the tenants with a respectful discretion.

The apartment was on the seventh floor, the penultimate, and the number 702 was shining on the gray door.

Gavin was delighted with this welcome, but he did not really feel at home until the door was closed, until he was seized by the leather fragrances that came from the two coats hanging on his right. Opposite, a big _Deadly Blessing_ poster was hanging with its beautiful bluish shades, imitating those of _The Shape of Water_ one, displayed next to it. On the bathroom door, Connor and he had fixed movie tickets, from the movie theater that was still making tickets just like in old times, and the names of the sessions were lined up as happy memories.

This list squeezed Gavin’s heart. He was still struggling to believe that the last time they had crossed the threshold was to go and eat at Connor’s father’s house. As they had been invited for noon and had not intended to return late, the shutters were barely lowered, so they had remained ajar since their departure. These half-closed eyelids showed the emptiness that had grown during their absence, and, contagious, it came to wrap itself under the ribs of the survivor.

As if he was rediscovering his apartment, Gavin moved slowly toward the living room, scrutinizing every detail. Near the bay window, a drying rack supported some clothes, dry for several days. They should have been bent the evening of their return, to avoid those thick folds that always made Connor’s misfortune.

The furniture in the open-plan kitchen, with its chrome surface, reflected the day’s bursts, reminding Gavin how much it was hurtful to sleep late because of these mirror effects when it was almost noon. A fruit basket was on the counter, containing four tomatoes that began to wrinkle.

He remembered: he had wanted to cook stuffed tomatoes, but they had not been ripe enough, so he had left them bath in sunlight.

They would not be good anymore when Connor came back—

The foot of mint and the one of basil pulled sad faces; leaves shriveled to claim water. Gavin placed the pots under the faucet, jaw clenched.

Their daily was broken; their habits interrupted and it would be difficult to get to them again—

The sun would reach its zenith, but he had only one desire: to go to bed.

But before, it was essential to get rid of the impression of that clinic, because it was still sticking to his skin. He needed to replace the smell of bleach with the shower gel’s, to wash the clothes he wore at the time of the accident to put on pajamas and— sleep. Sleep a sleep without ghosts.

Gavin felt his cell phone in the back pocket of his jeans, as if it had just appeared.

He did not have it at the clinic. Maybe the staff had kept it so the waves could not interfere with the machines? How was it that he had not thought of claiming it? Had they used it to find contacts and warn relatives, at least?

Gavin cursed when he saw that the screen was cracked. Of course, technology could not remain unscathed from such an accident.

Once plugged into the socket near the sink, the phone turned on; the green LED above the screen was a promising sign of life. An avalanche of messages flashed up on the screen, but Gavin did not have the strength to read them all, way too exhausted.

He still slid his thumb to a number, Connor’s one. His gesture might seem absurd, but it was more than a desire to talk to him: it was a need. And Connor could read the messages when he wakes up.

_“I just got home. I miss you.”_

Gavin had no intention of writing cheesy things like “the apartment isn’t the same without you” or “I feel incomplete when you’re far away”; these simple and direct words meant the same thing, and Connor would know it.

Gavin then made another good decision: he removed from his bag the boxes of medicine that the clinic had left, opened them one by one and crushed the aluminum tablets to throw them in the trash.

The name on the box did not mean anything to him, and the notice was nothing but some cigarette paper covered with pharmacological terms that amplified his headache. One thing was certain: these tablets did not do him any good, they even made him feel sick, so it was out of the question to swallow them again, especially now that he was free from the medical yoke.

The vapors from the shower began to grow in low clouds, enveloping him without touching him. At least, the water was melting the cold that had lodged in his bones, putting an end to the chills.

Despite the fatigue, Gavin was terrified of going to bed, terrified of facing fresh memories that would come once his eyelids closed, terrified of other nightmares.

And once in the room, his strength vanished.

On the chair besides the bed, near Connor’s side, a shirt was folded over the back, and upon the cloth, a dark green tie, speckled with gray diamonds. Connor was still preparing his clothes for the next day. This image, rooted in their lives, had come up with horrible proposals now.

Gavin gave up lying on the mattress that would have been too big anyway.

Still, before returning to the living room, he grabbed the tie and wrapped it around his hand. This one was a gift he had given maybe four years ago, and the silk was still soft, thanks to Connor’s diligent care. His other hand closed on the soft fabric, squeezing the tie when he lifted it to his lips.

He then lowered the curtains of the living room, blocking the view of the bay window and slumped on the couch. And without being aware of it, his thumb caressed the tie as if it was his husband’s hand.


	8. Interlude 4 — May 28, 2031

The proximity of the bodies, on the road, had strengthened their bonds, engaging them for the rest of the night.

Gavin had rolled at a decent speed, so if Connor had wrapped his arms around his waist, it had not been because of fear.

For about fifteen minutes, they had remained back against stomach, but soon, they would have much less constraints, so when entry door had been just crossed, they were torso against torso.

They had not turned on the lights; they were only revealed by the distant and cold lights of Detroit.

“When’s your shift start, tomorrow? We’re not very far from the prison, about thirty minutes, roughly.”

“Then it’s sure? I sleep here tonight?”

Connor slid his arms around his neck:

“Yes, sleep with me tonight.”

He sneered, noting the difference.

Gavin had not intended to leave: it was just a way to tease him, a good way to hide the nervousness that crept from his throat to his pelvis.

Connor’s ankles brushed against his as he slid against the wall, adjusting to an ideal size to be kissed again.

Then, as the owner knew the place even in the dark, he guided his guest along the corridor. Everything was neatly arranged so Gavin had little chance of stumbling into some neglected jumble.

Thanks to the dancing lights, he could quickly glance at framed pictures along the wall: thanks to them, tomorrow, he would be able to put a face on the people in Connor’s family, on Hank and Amanda.

He felt around his wrists the fingers that were still dragging him, and one of the hands only let go of him to open the bedroom’s door.

On the night table, a clock showed the hour in azure numbers, and next to it, a desk with an alone computer. The machine’s diodes were like fixed fireflies, imitating, on a reduced scale, the lights of the city. Above the screen, which was diffusing a pale light, Gavin easily recognized a poster of _Se7en_ , and, impressed, he murmured:

“You really have good taste.”

“You mean—?” Perplexed, Connor showed his own mouth. His astonishment could be heard in his voice, and Gavin burst out laughing:

“Nah, I didn’t mean ‘good taste’ that way. Even if it’s not wrong—”

He lifted Connor who gave a cry of surprise, before starting to laugh again. He was not so light, so Gavin almost let him fall on the mattress, before sprawling by his side.

“If you break the bed—”

“Then you’ll tell that it was a memorable night.”

This beginning of complicity was reassuring: Connor really felt attracted to Gavin since they met, but he was not sure whether it was reciprocal. Anxiety made him a perfectionist, and the slightest misstep would make him lose his composure, while every positive sign encouraged him to love.

He welcomed Gavin’s weight on him with joy, surrounding him with his legs and arms. The hands were searching for the slits of the clothes, without exploiting them entirely: the tips of the fingers grazed the skin warmed by the fabric, by the excitement, yet it was only the beginning.

The blinds had not been lowered, and the murmurs of the traffic slid against the window, mingling with the first sighs.

Connor would never tell him, but when he got home from their first night, he had laid down thinking about him, imagining him as a gentle lover, a more brutal one in turn. He had drawn under his eyelids the tattoo and the curves of the muscles, before coming in a confused curiosity.

That night, lifting the t-shirt, he already got his first answers: the tattoo was now unveiled, and in the dim light, the lines contrasted with the skin. He felt like a romantic fisherman who had finally caught his merman and was about to cherish him.

His lips touched that image, pressing his fingers against Gavin’s loins. The dim light had been mild enough to hide the scars, memories of prison that would be Connor’s main argument for convincing Gavin to integrate police instead. But for now, the partner was in the dark.

Gavin slid the knot of the tie, forcing Connor to remove his shirt. Under the palms were firm muscles, the stature of a swimmer. If Gavin lingered on the skin, he was sure he could smell the memories of chlorine over it.

A tingle testified that a belt had been defeated. There was no hurry, no sudden gesture, and the clothes, now empty, were just spread to a corner of the bed, to be forgotten.

With the same gentleness, Gavin removed the boxer from his partner, noting how much the fabric was stretched by the erection. He listened how Connor held his breath, his lungs contracted with impatience, imitating him unconsciously.

Well, maybe love at first sight was contagious?

Against his stomach, Gavin felt like a boiling fire, with the desire to stay close to it all night, attracted by this heat when even if the temperatures were milder since several weeks.

He grabbed Connor’s wrists and slid them onto the mattress, moving them away to block them.

“Do you want handcuffs?”

“You bloody cop.”

They burst out laughing, then, quite naturally, the pelvis got closer and the fingers intermingled. Each time they kissed, they left a great tenderness remaining, posing and imposing to them.

Connor slid the zipper of the jeans, then his fingers rushed under the stiff folds, feeling against his knuckles a bump that made him proud. His palm clung to the swollen cock and began to flatter it, barely pressing, and Gavin had to follow him if he wanted to accentuate the movement.

He exploited the weaknesses of the groin for making them strength, feeling the fingers of Gavin against his neck, teeth biting his lower lip.

Connor then flipped to the side, reaching for the nightstand. A tube rolled when he opened the drawer, causing a knock sound. He removed the cap and poured a small amount of gel into his palm.

Condoms have been considered unreliable for some years, or more precisely, since the preventive gel had been invented; because it was able to adapt to morphologies and feared no tear since it consolidated over the skin.

Gavin repressed a slight jolt: the material was cold at first, but after a few back and forth, the gel became warm and married perfectly the shape of his sex, covering it with some moisture.

He pushed Connor to make him lie down, and grabbed his ankle, lifting one of the bare legs to place it on his shoulder. His lips rested several times on the inside of the knee, where the skin is so thin that it shudders like paper. Gavin noticed, even in the shadows, the moles: they speckled even the thigh, the hip, the belly— his partner was studded with it.

Lying down, Connor savored every contact, carrying his folded index finger to his mouth, and his teeth jammed a phalanx. A habit he had when he was excited. But a gasp of surprise made him let go: Gavin had just bitten the rigid tendon under his knee. His jaw remained open when one hand stroked his leg and the other slipped on his groin, before placing under his ass.

The Detroit lights were printing on the sheets, allowing Gavin to monitor each sign, and he was delighted to see the shadows move with the body when a first finger came in, slipping with saliva. The cloth produced waves, moving along with Connor.

Slowly and gently, Gavin penetrated him, sinking his nails into his thigh and snatching a new groan.

The night bore the colors of the seabed, and the effort made the air vital. Sighs dried the throats, the tongues and the lips, but in the dim light, Gavin saw the happy smile.

It was the smile of a lover.

Soon, dominated hips swayed with those who gave the short shots. They led the dance in turn; the rhythms were initially confused, true, but they ended up harmonizing.

Kneeling in the mattress, Gavin lifted Connor’s pelvis a little more, and even though the support was harder, his hand picked up his partner’s one, and he did not let go of it until a warmth came to spread in his bowels. Several spasms pierced him along his legs, throwing in his stomach like waves throw themselves on the shore.

He leaned over Connor and kissed his tense throat, his soft chin, his smooth cheek, grabbing the sex still erect, pressing it in turn. Connor felt tingling under his lips. Further down, it was as if a hot water was boiling in his testicles, and with the same gasp as a drowned man escaping death, he clung to Gavin’s shoulders as he ejaculated.

They would have stayed in this position for long minutes if cramps did not start to hurt his hips, so Connor shifted slightly, getting close to a box of tissues.

Sticky, the sperm had the smell of sea spray.

Gavin was out of breath: lying on his back, his breathing was raising and lowering his chest. The white fluid began to sting, mimicking the sensation of sand after swimming in salt water. He felt Connor wiped it. A gesture Connor could have completed with a kiss, but he hesitated, so Gavin grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him.

“I’m going to need a shower.”

For a person as maniacal as Connor, this request was like a seduction number.

“Me too.”

He stood up, his white silhouette contrasting with the shadows. Gavin detailed the lines of the legs, and, going up to the shoulders, knew with certainty that Connor was a seasoned swimmer.

“You’re really handsome.”

“But we are in the dark—”

“Okay, can you stop being so down-to-earth?”

Connor laughed: he had been stupid to be like this, but the compliment had taken him by surprise. Gavin excused this awkwardness, laughing with him.

“You’re handsome, but you’re stupid.”

“I know—”

The alarm clock had just aligned four zeros, sealing their second night. For their first date, they had been chatting for hours, and now, the bodies were accomplices, affection replacing secrets.

Connor let Gavin shower first, and during that time, he placed a second toothbrush near the sink, leaving him even a clean t-shirt to sleep with.

An attention that Connor thought as vital, but that Gavin found surprising: he had known people more detached after a first lay, after they had obtained satisfaction.

In the doorway, Connor was wringing his hands.

“Are we—”

“Are we going to see each other again?” Gavin cut in, putting on the loaned clothes. “It’s obvious, don’t you think?”

“No, I meant— are we becoming exclusive?”

He was whispering, influenced by the late hour, or perhaps because his question was easier to ask if it was phrased in a low voice.

“Like— we see no one else?”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me if you can see other people?”

“No, I’m not! Not at all.”

Connor’s last relationship ended last year, it had been nothing more but a brief romance that had lasted a few months, however, the heartbeat he had had when meeting Gavin, that had not happened since a long time. So he needed to know if he could hope for more than a few nights—

“I don’t spend my time in bars flirting, if that’s what you want to know. And I don’t drive anyone somewhere.”

For now, Connor should be content with this answer, which was pretty promising, in the end, because he held at least one thing: he was not ‘anyone’.

Unlike Gavin, Connor had his morning, starting later to finish at the beginning of the night, so when they went back to bed with the intention of sleeping, he had not dared to talk, respecting his partner’s sleep.

And yet, it was Gavin who spoke, and bit by bit, he revealed more about his family: as an only child, he had been raised by his maternal grandparents, his mother being too young to look after him and his father, older, but more immature, could not welcome him. Back then, Detroit was not a happy city, and some months had been harder than others.

“Some prisoners are former classmates.”

“Really? I guess it’s not easy.”

“Yeah, it’s not easy.”

Lying on their side, face to face, their hands moved, to touch or move away.

During the night, he had not only evoked dark memories; he had also made Connor laugh with his casual humor.

“I’m serious, Connor: if tomorrow, we announce that a meteorite’s on its way to explode the planet, I’ll think of all those dumbasses who ride without a helmet, and I won’t be sad, trust me.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you sacrificed Arcadia Bay for Chloe.”

“You wouldn’t be happy to think that the morons who broke your car’s tires would explode too?”

He did not even bother to answer, laughing loudly.

As the hours passed, the shades of blue changed, becoming deeper, more intimate. Connor had put his chin on Gavin’s shoulder, his arm folded over his chest, and he had certainly fallen asleep in that position. When Gavin’s cell vibrated, at seven o’clock sharp, his head had slipped, snuggling close to the other’s neck.

Connor felt as though he had only been asleep for a few minutes, but they had slept for one or two hours. Like two teenagers, they had discussed until dawn. Gavin needed two coffees, rubbing his eyes, but he expressed no regret. On the contrary.

He was watching the pictures in the hallway, the most noticeable being a family portrait of Connor, at seventeen, whose hair was as curly as the wool of a sheep. A man with a Megadeth t-shirt was unraveling him under the benevolent gaze of a lady in a kimono suit. Gavin had no trouble recognizing Hank and Amanda: they were exactly as his partner had described them.

Gavin did not leave the apartment without kissing Connor, who stayed a few moments in the lobby, still holding the t-shirt he had lent. In the bathroom, Connor stared for a moment at the toothbrush, and did not bother to throw it away: he knew it would be useful again.

A feeling bloomed in his chest, with the wish of a beautiful story. Maybe even the promise of it.


	9. Freddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, [I take some prompts on my Tumblr, you'll find the list of my ships~](https://samsevenwrites.tumblr.com/post/184577468289/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you)

 Apartment

June 10, 2038

 

The nightmares had returned, shattered like broken glass and just as sharp. Gavin had seen operating tables littered with scalpels and screwdrivers, hammers and pliers. In a bowl of white steel, he had seen an eye dipped in a pool of blood, the blue of the iris so washed out that it felt cold.

It would take weeks for him to forget the atmosphere at this clinic, and until Connor was released, the weight between his lungs would continue to haunt him.

That fucking clinic. He did not know where it was, what its name was.

His cell phone has become wayward, but Gavin managed to turn it on again. The geolocation had a memory, so he might find its location after all?

When opening the application, he was disappointed: there was absolutely no information. A kind of amnesia had erased all the history, just like if the cellphone had only known the apartment.

“Fuck—”

At least the messages were still there: Captain Fowler, Tina, Chris, Fathia, Rebecca, Lionel, Ben and— and Hank. Of course.

_“Gavin, Connor is not answering my messages, is everything okay?”_

Connor always sent a message to warn his father that they had come home, whether they were fighting or not, so the silence that followed their departure was a bad sign, especially since it had lasted several days—

Hank had certainly sent a dozen, maybe even thirty messages to his son. In front of this silence, he had to swallow his pride and ask Gavin, a surprising effort to make.

The future son-in-law —fuck, he’s going to get pull a face when he learns that— also bite the bullet and called the worried father.

From the first tones, anger rose from his bowels like acid nausea.

“Hello?”

Fuck, he could easily imagine the smell of whiskey from the other phone. And it was not 10 o’clock yet—

“Hank—” Gavin was ready to jealously keep his sorrow for him, but managed to tame his rancor. “Hank, are you sitting?”

“What’s going on, Gavin?”

“We had an accident on the road.” Hank was not surprised, but the pain was no less hurtful: Gavin knew that tears were beginning to strangle him, so he spared him the effort of asking the difficult question. “Connor can’t talk to you for now, he’s hospitalized, but the doctors have assured me he’ll be fine.”

“Oh shit, no— no— In what hospital is he? I have to see him.”

Gavin clenched his fist, ready to stand: sadness never lasted long with the retired policeman, on the contrary, anger always succeeded very quickly, especially against his son’s partner.

“I don’t know, Hank.”

“What?”

“I don’t know which hospital he is.”

“Are you kidding me?”

For once, Gavin fully understood Hank’s anger. How could he ignore in which hospital Connor was? How was that possible?

“Are you fucking kidding me, Gavin?! How can you ignore that? How can’t you know? Are you so fucking dumb that you don’t even know where your man is?!”

Gavin was already pissed at himself; he did not need to have Hank on his back. Now he was ready to swing his phone.

It was already broken, anyway—

“Who was driving, Gavin?”

Gavin had risen in a start, and it awakened a pain in his shoulders.

Times were hard: Connor’s skills had been rewarded with the rank of lieutenant, but the high stress rate that went with it did not help his anxiety disorders. Not to mention that Amanda’s death, two years ago, remained a trial that his father could only overcome with alcohol, and the son, also bereaved, witnessed this decline, barely able to stop it.

Gavin’s support had been steady, but the more months passed, the more he doubted the strength of his shoulders, his affection. All this pressure weighed way too much.

But it was time to get things straight. For him. For Connor.

“You know what, Hank? It’s been weeks that I dream to tell you that: go fuck yourself, okay?”

Every word was weighed, heavy with anger. But it felt so good, so he said again:

“Go fuck yourself.”

And he hung up. Not in the traditional way: by launching the phone on the ground, which finally blew up the screen.

Gavin did not even regret his gesture, on the contrary, it relieved him. Furthermore, it was a good reason to go out to buy a new cell.

As he passed through the hall, he saw Connor’s portrait, the one where he was seventeen, beloved by his father and Amanda. If it had not been the cell phone, it would have been this fucking photo with Hank’s face.

Luckily, slamming the door did not cause any damage; the picture did not come off.

On the way, he called Fowler, and surprisingly, the captain, adept of remonstrance composed in screams, seemed relieved to hear one of his detectives.

“Fuck, Gavin, we were worrying, as we couldn’t call back the hospital that—

“What? The hospital?”

“Yeah, the one where Connor and you were taken care of. Last Thursday, a nurse called to tell us that you had an accident, and since then, no news—”

So the clinic had contacted the police station.

“You haven’t managed to call them?”

“Well, it rings, but no one picks up. We couldn’t really insist—”

“They didn’t give an address, a name or something?”

“Nothing, just that you were treated by Dr. Kowalski.”

“Kamski.”

“Right, something like that.”

The call was one week ago: apart from the fact that it was a quiet nurse who assured that Dr. Kamski had avoided the worst, Fowler did not remember anything else.

“Gavin— You need to rest, but if Connor’s absence is too hard to take, feel free to come back whenever you want, okay? And above all— we stay in touch, okay?”

The detective promised to give some news, of him and Connor.

Before going back to the police station, Gavin wanted to rest a few days, then, he would find his post, his daily, maybe Connor would even be back at that time, and everything would be back to normal. Everything.

The weather was warm, maybe even a little too hot, which forced him to isolate himself under the trees, in their shade. At least, that walk in Detroit cleared his mind.

Even getting worked up by all the phone models was a joy. The shop windows were full of ads, but Gavin did not care, instead staring at the phones, as light and flexible as paper, on display.

Connor and he were not really technology fans, being rather nostalgic. A food processor? They did not need it; Gavin was doing very well in this area. A virtual assistant? Connor accurately kept their datebooks and was as reliable as Alexa 4.0. They had a Roomba indeed, but a five years old model, and it was still effective so no need to replace it. The bait of novelty, they never bite.

They were therefore very bad customers with computer vendors, as they were impassive and wishing only the bare minimum.

The one who had proposed to advise Gavin quickly gave up the battle, and the sale lasted about ten minutes, memory transfers from the previous phone to the new included in the time.

He noticed that Hank had tried to call him back eight times before giving up. From now on, Gavin would only send messages; no more calls.

Without waiting, he continued cleaning his new cell and disabled the voice assistant, not supporting these intrusive and too curious AI. The self-corrector could also go and fuck itself: he could write and did not need the program to get ahead of him and guess his sentences.

Damn, they even did programs that shared sexual advice, giving them the name Traci. Bullshit—

A second chore awaited him: the car. Had a tow truck picked it up? He did not know where it was, but in a garage, they could geolocate it with its serial number.

Garages were the places that had changed the most in recent years: it was disconcerting, but some were confused with medical offices or laboratories. Except that they only treated vehicles. In the main halls, mechanical arms were constantly busting around metal carcasses, and oil stains were rare, making the overalls casual.

The mechanic was a neat young man, and he greeted Gavin, responding to his request. The geolocator worked without difficulty, revealing that the car was at forty-two miles from Detroit. Gavin took the opportunity to scan the map, studying the screen with the hope to see the clinic, but there were only vacant lots and forests.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Without Fowler’s call, he might have thought the clinic was part of his nightmares.

“A tow truck can pick it up Monday, is it fine for you?”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“We’re waiting for the photos, then I prepare a cost estimate.”

Gavin had to wait for the drone, belonging to the garage, to reach the vehicle and send some pictures to give an idea of the repairs.

Sitting on a hard metal bench, he massaged his shoulder. The pain reminded him that he should make an appointment with the doctor. Should he block a date too for Connor? His shoulder had been pierced, and Dr. Shinohara would surely forbid him to go back to swim for a long time.

After a few minutes, the mechanic whistled:

“You had a hell of a crash!”

It was difficult to make an accurate estimate, but a first one was made and Gavin did not even think, accepting the amount to be paid.

He could not wait for the car to be repaired and to be able to turn this endless page.

Now that these two tasks were done, all that remained was waiting for things to progress.

On the way, Gavin stopped in front of a pet shop. In a crate full of linen, a cat was massaging the air, her eyes creased with happiness, while her four kittens were suckling her. These balls of hair huddled against each other, forming the sweetest family ever. Gavin waited for one of them to lift his muzzle, as he loved so much those sad mugs, so soft they tear your heart apart, but they persisted to keep their nose against those breasts full of milk.

Gavin finally walked in, smiling at these little creatures.

He had a cat when he met Connor, a beautiful beast named Batman, but he was poisoned two years later. A few months after his death, Connor had suggested adopting another cat, but Gavin, categorically, had refused.

His mourning was over today, and perhaps he could welcome a new companion without the impression of being unable to love him?

The seller greeted him and offered his help, but the visitor, still undecided, assured him that he was only here to cast a glance.

Snakes slept in vivarium, sometimes opening a discreet eye to follow the man. The bodies shone, wet with suppleness, the reverse of the tender furs of the mice in remote cages, inviting to scrape the delicate backs.

Further, a cat in a cage caught his attention: his hair was as black as coal, but the most surprisingly was one of his ears. It was curled up in a small piece of pink and embossed flesh, giving a particular asymmetry to the triangle head. The big yellow eyes stared at him, full of innocent curiosity.

“This one’s the last of a litter: the cat had given birth in an old building that caught fire a month later. And he managed to escape.”

The story of the salesman could have been all made up, but the ear and the bare temple confirmed the story.

“How old is he?”

“Four years.”

“He was never adopted?”

“No.”

Gavin put his finger against one of the metal rods, and the cat rubbed his muzzle. His breath was almost hot. When Gavin spread his hand away, the cat, frustrated, raised a paw and clung to the fence, claws in evidence. He began to meow, outraged not to receive more caresses.

“Are you still selling it?”

The seller looked surprised.

“Of course.”

Usually, people asked rather for kittens, preferably without malformation or scar, and especially, not black, as some superstitions remained stubborn. But Gavin was not an ordinary customer, even in a pet shop.

This impulse forced him to buy kibble and a litter at the same time.

The cat had not put its claws down yet, watching the scene and trying to figure out what was going on at the counter.

“How are you going to call him?”

His name was all found.

“Freddy.”

Freddy Krueger.

Connor was going to love it.


	10. Interlude 5 — 30 June 2031

“Becky, lead the guys over there; Detective Anderson is coming soon.”

The jailer confirmed to her colleague that it would be done, and she showed the way to the prisoners. Not one tried to fight: Rebecca Burnow did not have the size of a wardrobe, but she had been practicing boxing for years, and when she walked, her thighs swelled under her uniform pants, just like when she lifted an arm, her biceps became steel.

Some inmates had tried to touch her ass once, but they had only got one or more broken fingers. A treatment that calmed even the most perverse.

She was a very pretty woman by the way, but the prisoners understood that she was not a prey, and for some of them, respect for a female person was a whole new experience.

“Do you really need to attend the interview?” Becky asked. She had just closed the door, and was standing in front of her colleague, a fist on her hip. “I wouldn’t have said that the first time, but this detective looks more stubborn and solid than he seems.”

“Damn, you’re fucking right.” Gavin sniggered, arms crossed.

But yes, he still wanted to attend the interview, especially because last week, Price had refused to see Connor. An attitude that had not pleased the guard, who also was the cop’s boyfriend.

His colleague laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Better not touch Big Bad Reed’s darling, huh? Don’t worry, I understand. Price is a prick: all the excuses are good for a fight for him.”

“Price is a prick? Did you just really try a pun?”

“What? Think I can’t be a poet because I use my fists too often?” She clenched her fists. “I write poems with these.”

“Don’t ever show me what you can write, that sounds so bad.”

The sound of a sliding door interrupted them. At the end of the yellowed corridor, Connor followed another guardian, a Mexican as tall, as gnarled and as brown as a tree: a great guy named Lionel Casillas, simple and quiet, but redoubtable when angered.

“Reed, I let you take over from here.”

Lionel winked at him, which made Gavin growl. It seemed that they could not have secrets, but oh well, as long as the prisoners, at least the most dangerous, did not know anything, everything was fine. Even at the dawn of this decade, homosexuality remained a sensitive subject, especially in the prison environment.

Connor and Gavin did not bother to greet each other: they had seen each other this morning, since Connor had spent the night at Gavin’s place. The heat had made him fold his jacket over his arm, but the impeccable tie was still around his neck.

But last night, it was around his wrists that it had been knotted, and Gavin had to make an effort to think about something else. He could always pretend that it was the heat that made him blush, but his colleagues would joke about the fact that, today, the heat was named Connor Anderson.

In the room, the same they had used to interrogate Price the first time, Gavin let the detective settle at the table, going, for his part, toward the window to open it. The air outside was heavy, but the room was in a wing plunged into the shadows, so a cool breeze filtered through the bars.

Connor leaned against the edge, enjoying the fresh air.

“Thank you, Gavin.”

“It was for me: it’s so hot I’m going to die.”

“No, I mean— yes, thank you for the window, but thank you especially for bringing together inmates next door. If I were a machine, I’m sure at ninety-nine percent that Price was the one who killed those kids. I just need him to admit.”

Of all the qualities that Gavin had discovered of Connor, there was one of being a very good cop. Thoughtful, patient and tenacious, Detective Anderson did not earn his rank just because of his relationships: he deserved it.

Becky was right: Connor could manage that prick, moreover, Price was not the first suspect he questioned.

“I won’t be far.”

“I know.”

The detective gave him one of those smiles full of sweetness.

Even though Connor had not said anything to him, Gavin understood that he felt sincere feelings for him: that kind of smile proved it. As for him, he was sure of nothing: every time Connor smiled that way, his heart began to swing, like to imitate the curve of the lips, but otherwise, he was unsure—

As an answer, Gavin ruffled his hair, and Connor had to style his hair quickly.

A guard, whom the detective had never seen, opened the door and, without a word, intimated Price to enter. Like the previous time, Connor started the registration application and invited the prisoner to settle down.

For administrative reasons, the investigator recalled the date of the interview, the reason and made a brief summary of previous meetings, mentioning the one that had been canceled.

“You refused to see me last Thursday, why did you change your mind?”

Price’s cheekbones looked like two apples on blond hay. His crossed arms made his chest swell, but his obstinacy still did not wear out the patience of his interlocutor.

On the contrary, he was even conciliatory:

“You can take your time.”

Price let out a sneer.

“Too kind of you. Must be fun to be the smartass, huh?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You come here with your rich suit and your pretty mug, all clean like some fucking young graduate,  

You do the trick with your rich young suit and your little face, all clean as a young graduate, but I know you’re bang Reed.”

Connor did not even blink; at most, he raised an eyebrow.

“Price, this isn’t why I—”

“It’s so easy to picture: you, without your suit and your nonchalant air, on all fours and fucked in the ass by the jailer.”

Near the door, Gavin heard that, and this provocation made him blow a fuse. Becky tried to hold him back, to remind him that the inmates, in the next room, had been there to scare Price, but his colleague rushed into the room and he grabbed Price, wedging his throat into the crook of his elbow.

“Apologize, Price.”

Unlike the guard who was beginning to strangle the detainee, the detective remained impassive.

“Are you done, Price? Can we go back to the real subject?”

In the sudden silence, the heckling provoked by the prisoners in the next room became obvious, but it was no longer a serious threat to the guard, who repeated his advice:

“Apologize, Price, or I know some guys who will _love_ to fuck you in the ass before the end of the day.” His embrace tightened. “You choose: either you spend a few hours with your friends next door, or you answer the questions of the detective nicely.”

Unable to articulate; redder than if he had sunbathed, Peter Price pointed to his choice; he drew an index finger towards Connor.

With a wave of his hand, the detective asked the jailer to free the man. That was enough. Things were already going too far, and he did not want the situation to escalate further. Really, he had heard much worse, and Price’s words were already forgotten.

Making fun of an individual’s sexual life and buttocks was a, overused tactic, so much it was working less and less: many of his colleagues, especially women, could testify to it.

“We can resume, Price?”

The child killer groaned. He asked for a glass of water with a hoarse voice, and Gavin was obliged to bring him that damn glass, because otherwise, Price could pretend he was no longer able to speak.

After a few minutes Connor asked the guard to leave them, proving to Price that his little comments had barely touched him.

But with this kind of provocation, the inmate did not made a friend, and when Gavin returned to the hall, neither Becky nor Lionel dared to say a word. None joke could ease the atmosphere, and anyway, no one wanted to laugh—

Finally, Becky whispered:

“What a prick”

“Connor thinks he really killed those kids.”

“Even if he’s right, Price already got life for his crimes.”

Without a word, Lionel cracked his knuckles. A long scar ran from the base of his thumb to his wrist and the swollen line looked like a brown worm. They all had their own marks of this ungrateful job, but Lionel had a strength that had kept him going for twenty years. Strength inspired, he said, by his wife and three daughters.

“He’s already condemned to life,” continued his colleague, “and our role is to watch, not to burden a sentence. So it’s pointless.”

“For us, it won’t change a thing, it’s true,” Lionel admitted, “but think about the families, Becky. They can’t mourn for the moment, and if Price doesn’t confess, he put a stop to it.”

Gavin bit his cheek: he was the exact opposite of his colleague, and yet he admired his calm, his wisdom.

To become a prison warden was to cultivate a rage against certain specimens of humanity. The small dealers and car thieves could arouse some pity, or at least contempt, but the rapists, the killers, the manipulators inspired much more— And then, you got to know the prisoners better, you began to see them beyond their crimes, you try to understand what fucked up. A talent that Lionel had perfected, and that Gavin was trying to apply day by day to facilitate his daily life, but between the sun and this nervousness, it was difficult.

Not to mention his relationship with Connor that was starting, which led to something that Gavin could not visualize. He was afraid it would only last a few weeks, just like he was afraid it would last for years.

And if their story lasted, would Connor bring what the Casillas brought to Lionel? Would he be happy?

From the window of the door, Gavin watched Connor talking. Deep in his heart, he wanted to believe that he could be satisfied with this man. He was almost _convinced_ he could.

From here, he heard only a few words, but enough to understand that the killer was finally confessing.

Connor listened to the story of the Michigan Ogre, supporting his gaze, his jaw barely contracted. The last moments of the two children were immortalized on the recording, their sentence engraved in the memory of the machine.

Then, once all the answers were recorded, Connor touched the stop icon. His mission was over.

“Thank you, Price.” The detective put away his equipment and, before getting up, pretended to remember something. “Oh, before I forget, I had to thank you for something else, according to jailor Reed, so— Thank you, again.”

He gave him an almost sincere smile, but Price did not understand what he meant, and he looked at him with wide eyes until Lionel came to pick him up.

The detective was satisfied: he had all the elements he needed, and his return to the police station made him impatient. However, he did not leave the prison without asking Gavin if he felt okay.

The question left the guard puzzled:

“Do I feel okay? I should be the one asking it to you, after what Price spit in your face?”

Connor shrugged with a smirk: what the prisoner had told him was so despicable that it was already forgotten. In his place, Gavin would have broken the nose of someone who would have dared to talk to him like that, and he would have ruminated over those words for days, but not Connor: he remained unperturbed.

Out of sight, Connor grabbed his wrist with compassionate gentleness, and tried to make his partner laugh:

“Maybe Price is jealous?”

“Of who? You or me?”

“I’d say of me.”

Connor winked at him, and it was as if the temperature finally dropped a few degrees, as if the storm that had been thundering for hours under his ribs was stopping.

The policeman had a force different from his own, and Gavin imagined it to be similar to Lionel’s: quiet, but solid. A force on which one can rest with total confidence.

Yes, Gavin was okay. He knew that from now, he would be okay.


	11. Strong enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the reupload: I've mixed up the chapters 11 and 12, that what happens when you have so many files, so have the right chapter 11, and the next ones.

Apartment

June 10, 2038

 

No, Connor had never felt down because of someone insulting.

But he had other weaknesses, and Gavin remembered the moment he discovered his OCD, remembering how quickly Connor became livid, one night, when, after putting his jacket on a chair, he thought he had lost that old coin.

It had simply fallen out of the pocket to ride on the gray carpet he had back then, discreet because of this tone-on-tone effect. When Gavin had handed him this lucky charm, Connor had breathed a sigh of relief, forced to sit as his legs were shaking.

Gavin had asked him what this coin could mean, but Connor had not wanted to answer him. He had kept this neurosis for him, hiding the shame that was swallowing him. The idea that his boyfriend could judge him was unbearable.

In fact, Connor had only spoken of his troubles three years before. After four years of relationship, then.

He had found the courage to talk about it during a time when everything was fine and his rituals had less influence on him, a time when Gavin had just been named as detective and they had just moved in together. Even so, being able to talk about it was an invaluable proof of trust.

Of course, Gavin had suspected something, noticing the need for everything to be sorted alphabetically, the cutlery also had to be stacked instead of forming a clatter at the bottom of the drawers, just like the towel in the bathroom must be folded in a certain way, and so on.

But Connor had shared more, which could not be visible, like the irrational fears that seized him sometimes. These parasitic thoughts germinated whether in the middle of the night or in the middle of the day, leaving no rest. Among these absurdities was the fear of doing something wrong, of committing an irredeemable act.

Connor knew it was silly, but these thoughts crept into his mind and haunted him for hours, for days. And when the anguish was too unbearable, he needed to play with that coin, he needed to tidy up, focus entirely on a specific job and forget his demons.

Exposing all these mechanisms had taken a lot of effort, but they had been rewarded: instead of making fun of it, instead of denying that a mind could work that way, Gavin had hugged Connor.

They had supported each other all those years, so what had happened? How had they managed to forget to love each other after so many shared secrets?

Was it really their end? Could they no longer support each other? Had their strength diminished?

And the accident proved that they were careless, that the wishes to cherish and protect had shriveled because of monotonous daily life, losing their value.

Gavin held out his fingers in front of him and observed the alliance: this proof of love contradicted all his doubts. Connor had not given up; he had just waited, as usual, the perfect moment, lugging this proof of love in his bag and in his mind always so active.

What a moron.

What morons.

Gavin grabbed his phone and looked at his messages: no confirmation of reading, of course, but he was certain: the moment when his last message would be followed by a ‘seen at such time’, the knot that had formed behind his heart would untie.

Since he had returned, Freddy had been hiding under the bed in the room, not daring to explore his new home. The transition between a cage and an apartment must have been surprising, before being comforting. Gavin knew the fierce nature of cats, and gave him time to get used to this new life: even hidden, his presence canceled the feeling of loneliness.

Lying on the couch, exhausted by his walk in the city, Gavin sighed: seven years ago, he would never have been so patient in this situation of waiting. There, he comforted himself by continuing to send messages to the man he loved, convinced that this nurse had not lied to him: Connor would survive.

_“For your return, I’ll make an apple pie.”_

Connor would easily understand what this dessert meant, and he would laugh as Gavin did at that moment.

Because it was for them a precious memory, absolutely precious.


	12. Interlude 6 — 5 September 2031

“Gavin, I swear to God, if you approach me with this spatula, you’ll regret it.”

“What spatula?”

“I know what you’re hiding behind your back.”

On the stairs, Connor did not move, refusing to go downstairs. Of course, he had a chair folded under his arm that was beginning to weigh, but he knew that Gavin would get tired first in this duel, so he put it close to him and waited.

And, as he had expected, his boyfriend shrugged and gave up, leaving the weapon in evidence: a spatula covered with sugar, apple sauce and flour, mixture for the apple pie who was cooking at the moment in the oven.

“And what would you have done, huh? Telling your father?”

Connor burst out laughing, coming down the last steps and heading for the terrace: after adding two chairs, he would set the table. Then, they had to wait for Amanda and Hank to come back of errand.

It was the second time Gavin had been eating at Connor’s parents, and surprisingly, if he got along with Hank, he had a much better affinity with Amanda. Perhaps because in her own way, she reminded him of Connor, with this desire to look at her best, to dress with taste and to show an unshakeable calm.

For today, she had opted for a mauve tailor, and one of the sides of the collar was long enough to serve as a shawl. She had also gathered her braids into a thick ponytail, and, a sign of some originality, some locks were tinted in different shades of blue. Amanda Stern still moved with studied grace, the posture as elegant as that of the nineteenth-century ladies, and the contrast when she sat next to Hank with her black baggy and military t-shirt was amusing.

Hank Anderson, his hair cut short but with a thick beard, had faded blue eyes, the exact opposite of his son’s eyes, dark and woody, but when he looked at his family, the color became bright and sparkling. His bear stature made him go beyond Amanda even when she was wearing heels, but his imposing shadow was only the appendage of a protective love.

Gavin, at first glance, had realized how much they loved each other, how much they cared for their son. It was a united family who had welcomed him warmly.

Despite a difficult start, Connor now saw Amanda as a mother; the woman who had given birth to him had fallen sick when he was too young, and she died even before his memory had drawn the features of her face. Once he had accepted this second mom, she had been able to give him a lot of support, and Gavin was touched to see how their complicity was still strong.

Moreover, as Connor had often complimented the talents of his boyfriend as a cook, Amanda, with that kindness that seemed to come from another era, had asked the guest if he would mind to make the dessert, and of course, in front of these inquisitive eyes, it was impossible to refuse. And then, it would have been cowardly—

On the terrace, only the roses had kept their flowers; the other plants had already been bare for the autumn, keeping only their leaves still swollen with heat. It was so good that they could spend the afternoon outside, even if they hoped that the wasps would not get too close to the plates.

Connor had to go back upstairs to get the fourth chair. When he returned to the hall, Gavin jumped at the opportunity to trap him: he ran a finger into the bottom of the salad bowl and spread a trace of compote on Connor’s cheek.

The victim laughed, trying to grab the salad bowl.

“You bastard!”

 “I left the package of flour open in the kitchen, beware, or I’ll get some!”

He had to put the bowl on the nearest piece of furniture; out of the question to break dishes because of clumsiness.

Connor grabbed him at the waist and tried to push him to the kitchen, judging it was a better playing field, but Gavin resisted pretty well, counterbalancing his weight.

They were two thirty-year-old kids heckling, laughing so hard that Sumo had started barking from the garden, more envious than worried. Sumo was a boisterous puppy, so playful and awkward that he had broken a lamp that morning and Amanda had forbidden him to come back into the house until evening. All these bursts of joy made him want to participate.

All of a sudden, as he began to get out of breath, Connor gave up and took a step back. Gavin misinterpreted the retreat, thinking that his man was preparing something, and a wrong move made them lose their balance.

For a moment, there was no laughter anymore. Sumo heard a thud, and a grunt.

Gavin felt his elbow hit the floor, and his knee bumped into Connor’s. The latter was looking at the salad bowl, which was safely resting on the edge of the side table.

“Thank goodness you put it down.”

Gavin confirmed.

“We would’ve fled with Sumo, otherwise.”

Connor agreed, though laughing rhymed with pain after the fall they had just made. Gavin noticed that the jam trace was still on Connor’s cheek and he pointed it out.

They giggled so much they could not get up. Connor had tears in his eyes, an arm on Gavin’s back. Unable to speak, they needed several minutes to calm down, and even then, their cheeks were still red with laughter, abs hurting.

The door to the terrace was still open, letting in a warm breeze come in. They did not even notice the puppy barking.

Connor finally wiped the trace and put his finger to his mouth:

“I’m glad: it seems you cooked well.”

The apple pie was still cooking: the scent it emitted was growing in intensity, promising. Gavin hoped Connor was right: he had parents to impress.

He wanted to thank him, but something interrupted him, something in the situation.

He was lying on his boyfriend in his parents’ lobby, after he had cooked the dessert for the family, and he understood Amanda’s request was an opportunity to fit in, to participate.

Summer was coming to an end, and he had the strange feeling that their story was just beginning. Gavin rested his palm against the tie, feeling the heartbeat just below.

“I’m falling in love, Connor.”

A violent rap knocked against his hand.

Connor’s eyes widened, surprised by this confession.

In three months, they had not once put words on their feelings; they had expressed it with gestures quite often, but in the end, naming feelings out loud could be as good as showing it.

“I love you too, Gavin.”

“I know, but I didn’t know if I—”

“We had to fall for real, so you could realize that you’re falling in love?” It was an attempt at mockery to hide how much he was, in fact, fulfilled. “It’s original.”

He brought his man against him to kiss him. In the air lingered the cake and summer smells, warm and comforting.

During the meal, later, their hands had crossed, which had not escaped Amanda who noticed that something changed. The smile she gave to her son proved that she was glad, and she did not forget to congratulate Gavin for the dessert, adding that it was certainly because it had been done with love.

Although very serious, it was not uncommon for Amanda to joke, and, Gavin realized it today, she had encouraged their story from the beginning, even convincing Hank who was, at that time, more dubious.

He missed Amanda, too—


	13. Back

Detroit Police Station

June 16, 2038

 

The first morning Freddy came out of hiding, he came to curl up against his new master, whom he found huddled against a pillow.

After several walks in the apartment, the cat had finally become familiar with this larger, warmer universe. From his cage, he had only a few vague memories.

Although it was a bit curious: the human, too, sometimes went around in his apartment, as if he rediscovered it for the first time, as if he was looking for something. Sometimes he watched the pictures hanging in the entrance, while pondering. At other times, he was checking his phone, writing messages to someone who could not read them.

In the hollow spaces, he seemed lost and, above all, deeply upset.

Despite this slightly depressed state, his master was not stingy for cuddling, and Freddy was purring like an old boiler, his brow burning with happiness. His presence really helped Gavin, who was starting to lose patience.

The day before, he had set his alarm clock with the intention of going back to the police station: he needed to work, otherwise he would go crazy before Connor returned. His messages, forty-one until now, were bottles to the sea that had not yet been read by their recipient, but he did not lose hope and persisted in reminding his man that he always thought of him.

The car was not repaired yet, forcing Gavin to move by subway. On the way, the earphones on his ears, he was looking for the titles of Guns N’Roses.

Their songs had never seemed so bitter.

How many times had he heard Connor singing over Axl’s voice? How many times had they sung the chorus of _Civil War_ together? Or the one of _Bad Apples_? How many times did Connor give up finishing _Don’t Cry_ , too moved by this song? Especially when he watched Gavin when he said “I still love you, baby”?

Gavin pulled out his cell phone and, guided by the singer’s voice, wrote a passage from _November Rain_.

“So never mind the darkness,

We still can find a way

‘Cause nothin’ lasts forever

Even cold November rain.”

Gavin knew it: when Connor woke up, he would complete the lyrics, as he had always done.

Standing alone in the crowd that had filled the wagon, Gavin stared at the screen; he would have given much for his man to answer in the minute, write him there, right now, without delay. Gavin was ready to turn back, to go back to hide in their apartment.

Then, to regain some strength, he changed the music, almost reluctantly, and listened to the Ramones until the destination.

In front of the police station, colleagues were talking, sunbathing during their break, savoring either a coffee, a cigarette, a good conversation, or, for some, all three at once. The black uniforms contrasted with the greenery surrounding the establishment and bordering the path that led to the car park. What a joy to be able to be out, heels planted in grass, cheeks warmed by morning rays.

If this pleasure would seem blander to Gavin, at least, work would allow him to think of something else.

As he approached the entrance, colleagues moved their cigarettes or goblets away, hesitating between a welcoming smile and a sorry pout. Some looked down, as if the detective was in mourning, and those, Gavin had a serious desire to punch them. What? Why this modesty full of pity? The name of Connor was going to be a taboo? No one would talk about Lieutenant Anderson, even though he was still alive?

In the lobby, Tina was chatting with a woman who was leaving; an Asian girl with a purplish cockade, recent gift from her girlfriend. The violence could poison any couple and Gavin sighed, glad that he and Connor had never any physical fight.

On seeing him, the colleague gave him a hand sign: as soon as she finished talking to the victim, she would come to see him.

When he arrived to settle, his office seemed smaller than before; recent shocks disturbing his bearings. Would he manage to work between the ringtones of the phones, the bursts of voice from the cells, the footsteps in the corridors, the glances towards him? He thought that the tension between his shoulders could not get worse, and yet—

Please, can this fucking day start so all the police could go back to their computers?

A goblet filled with black coffee landed on the edge of the desk; a friendly offering from Tina, not to mention the honest smile she gave him.

“I know it sounds silly but— how are you?”

“Trying to feel better.”

He thanked her with a nod. The cardboard was hot, he had to leave it aside.

“When we received the call from the clinic, we really thought that Fowler was going to pass out.”

It was hard to believe, but right now, Gavin did not have the strength to doubt of anything.

“By the way, Tina, do you know anything about this clinic?”

“What do you mean?”

“That place was— weird. I saw only one doctor, one nurse, and they had no logo, nothing.”

“Do you have the doctor’s name, at least?”

“He just said his name was Kamski.”

If Tina suspected that Gavin’s memory was confused by medication, still, she kept this idea to herself and instead gave her friend support.

The name of the doctor was not such a common name: if they searched, they would eventually find an identity, even if it would take a few days. In addition, the officer promised to retrieve the phone number that had been used; the detective could then try to trace the call.

“We were so scared, Gavin, and we’re happy to see you again. We hope Connor will be back soon too.”

Detective Reed was more than a colleague; it was a friend, and this meeting, Tina owed it to Connor, thanks to the fact that he managed to convince Gavin to leave his job at the prison.


	14. Interlude 7 — 11 March 2032

Gavin had just crossed the threshold of the front door when Connor rushed to take him in his arms. What was inexpressible was told with gestures of comfort: the embrace, the kiss on the temple, the second in his hair.

Usually, on Thursdays, the jailor’s work ended in the middle of the afternoon.

It was almost 8 P.M.

The day had been exhausting, as exhausting as the previous one.

Yesterday, an inmate, named Alex Barney, hanged himself in his cell. His body had been discovered by Gavin and another guardian, but too late to be saved. The thirty-four-year-old drug dealer had pulled out the electrical cables that ran along the ceiling of his cell, and clung to it. No knots, no hooks: the blue sheaths, which had looked like thick swollen veins, had held, supporting the dead weight.

Alex Barney had a pretty face, with full lips and a barely hooked nose, but death had made him ugly: the pressure around his throat had given the face a simian look, and the mouth had been stretched to excess, making it sulky. The skin had changed to wet wax, giving greenish tints to the tanned complexion—

The inmate in the next cell had complained that his television was no longer working, and when he had learned why, he had tried, head pressed between the bars, to spit on the corpse. It was the only reaction that Barney’s death had caused.

Last night, while listening to this story, Connor had rocked Gavin against him, both sheltered under the sheets.

Throughout the day, he had not sent any message, nor asked any questions: Connor had waited until the evening to know the sequence of events.

“What happened?”

“I found out why Alex killed himself.”

Connor kissed the tip of his ear, still supporting him; he would have carried him to bed, he would have raised him and all his worries. Even if he did not let anything showed, he was moved to hear Gavin’s broken voice, to feel how his hands were clutching his shirt.

But the jailor, paralyzed jaw, hesitated to explain what he had discovered. He articulated in a low voice:

“I don’t know if I can explain that to you—”

“Gavin, I’m a policeman, in Detroit, don’t you forget, so it takes a lot to shock me.”

Of course. The detective had seen corpses, had witnessed violent interactions, just as he had already witnessed embarrassing situations, always maintaining exemplary neutrality— But it was not a lack of trust in Connor; it was out of respect for Alex.

The prison warden was not easily impressionable, but this scornful spit had shocked him, and now, he had the weight of a secret in his throat.

He stared at Connor, his attentive air, without any obscene curiosity. Even though he was a detective, his features were sometimes so innocent, when he raised his eyebrows this way and pressed his lips. Gavin trusted him, with all his heart, and he needed to share that burden.

The best was to start from the beginning.

Alex Barney was a chemist of modern times, not excellent, but clever in his contacts, surrounded by a loyal clientele. During his trial, he had increased his sentence because he has been flippant: drugs were no laughing matter for justice, and it showed even less pity for the dealers who imagined themselves above the law.

Being familiar with the policemen and preening in front of his lawyer were one thing, keeping the same insurance in prison was another. The dealer had been knowing that fourteen months in shade would be long, but he had planned to occupy his mind so time would be forget— but during the first night in his cell, reality hit him in the teeth: he was in _jail_. For four hundred and twenty-six days, he was going to share his meals with bigger criminals, desperate people who had nothing to lose.

Because of his first attitude, Alex Barney had not made any friends among the jailors, and his attempts with the detainees had not really been successful—

But he had not hanged himself to draw attention to his little person; there was something else. Gavin had suspected this when, at the time of the discovery, he saw two cigarettes on the bed. It could have been trivial, but Alex Barney did not smoke. Gavin had already heard him make this joke: “I may shoot up, but I’ve the same lungs as when I was eight!”

Even if this detail was surprising, Gavin had kept it for himself.

It did not stop him from enquiring, and he had found new elements, obeying some kind of instinct, when they were only small things that seemed unimportant: hours exchanged on the schedules, new links between some detainees, a forgotten bag in the yard, a mobile phone without package.

Gavin had stayed until evening, he had stayed until he discovered that Alex Barney had become—

“—what’s called a ‘bitch’.” Connor finished softly, and Gavin nodded.

This kind of thing happens every day, in every prison in the world, but it was the first time Gavin had discovered the facts by himself.

Tracking down this mystery, Gavin finally had found a pornographic video in the cell phone. And it dated last Monday.

From the fridge, Gavin took a cold beer, despite the chilly temperatures according to the end of winter. When he had closed his locker in the prison, the sun had already gotten stuck on the horizon: the kind of luminosity that makes you understand that the day is over, that you just have to go to bed just before to continue with tomorrow.

The prison director had given him and his colleague three days off, but Gavin was not sure he wanted to take advantage of them.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Connor was thinking. He knew it was not the moment, so he kept his congratulations for later, but that would not change the fact that Gavin had done the job of an investigator. A job that did not really belong to his duties, and yet it had been carried out. Suicides in prison are still so common that, without Gavin, Alex Barney’s reasons could have been taken to his grave.

When Gavin put the bottle down, Connor took the opportunity to grab his hand. His fingers lingered, as if they were caressing, at the same time, the idea that the jailor could join the police. Actually, this fancy was not new: it had started growing for a while, since Connor had seen again and again Gavin’s scars. The one on the nose was just one of many memories: a longer scar descended on his back, from his ribs to his loins, while a third, V-shaped, marked his shoulder. And God knew if another was camouflaged by the tattoo on his arm; it was so big that Connor would not have been surprised if that was the case.

The worst was that none was justified: if Gavin or one of his colleagues were wounded, it was, most of the time, fortuitous, because as jailors, they interposed in conflicts and hand-made blades could skid.

Even so, there were not just nicks: two weeks ago, Gavin had twisted his wrist because he had separated two inmates, and he still felt some pain.

He was like a tamer in a cage full of wild animals.

Connor tried to push the idea back into his head, and listened instead to Gavin, who explained what he had planned: he was not going to rest for the three next days. Tomorrow, he would hand over the reins to colleagues belonging to a special branch of penitentiary supervision, but he would insist on the need for a complete autopsy.

Connor rested his palms against his man’s jaw, forcing him to look at him.

“Gavin, you’re tired and you’ve living something difficult. Take those few days to clear your mind, okay? You can send an email to your boss, but try to not wear yourself out. Please.”

Maybe Connor did not want him to go back there: if the rapists learned that jailor Reed had discovered their secrets, then his life would be threatened—

A little more entreating, Connor added:

“Take some rest. To get over it, to think, okay?”


	15. The sad giant

Detroit Police Station

June 16, 2038

 

And Gavin had thought over it. He had especially thought about the proposition that Connor had made to him a month later; that he could join the Detroit police.

To convince him, Connor had assured him that he had this something that would make him a good investigator: observer — perhaps a bit inquisitive, but in the police, it was not always bad — reasoned, logical— And of course, his physical health was an asset, one that was missing to some colleagues who had become paunchy!

After several months of consideration, Gavin had handed in his resignation and passed the exam. All along, he had been supported by the detective who was delighted to welcome him as a colleague, and during October, he had met Tina Chen, this little woman with whom he got along immediately, perhaps because they had the same sharp humor and frankness.

Chatting with her had helped him to feel better.

Formerly, these moments were of great banality, being inserted during the day without them realizing it, but today, Gavin measured better small happiness, rediscovering its value, its placebo effect.

Then he took on various tasks, moving his thoughts away from Kamski’s clinic. The nightmares attached to this place, under the light of day, became ridiculous, and the cold they had inspired no longer had any influence.

At one point, Tina knocked against his desk and told the detective that a man wanted to report a disappearance.

“You feel you can take a statement? Or do you want to wait a bit before a case?”

“I waited long enough, Tina, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

She assured that she could understand, nodded, and returned to the entrance.

Gavin gasped as the man stepped into the hall, and he was not the only one: all the policemen straightened their heads in a single movement, open-mouthed, while the giant tried to slalom between the desks. The broad shoulders protruded under a lumberjack shirt, and the red seemed brighter on the black skin.

When he saw those hands, Chris blessed the sky that the man was a witness and not a criminal: his balls shrank just because of the idea of having to fight against such a mountain.

However, only the size of the giant was a threat; his face expressed such sadness that some police switched from fear to compassion. No nervousness came to agitate the visitor; just a great weariness, as if the big feet were too heavy to move.

Even when he sat down in front of the desk, the man was still impressive. Detective Reed straightened his back, but without success: he felt intimidated again.

“You told my colleague you want to report a disappearance?”

“Yes.”

He had a beautiful deep voice, the kind that warms the back of the throat.

“I’ll ask you to decline your identity.”

“My name’s Luther Andronikov.” Gavin raised his eyebrows and the shadow of a smile rose upon the lips of the giant: a black man with a Russian name always aroused reactions, so Luther was used to surprised looks. He was not African-American: Luther was in fact a genuine patchwork of origins, as he was born in Vancouver. At thirty-six, he was a ranger, a great nature enthusiast who did not adapt well to cities, but in Detroit, he had met the woman of his dreams. “I live at 15331 Ferguson Street, with my wife, Kara, and her daughter, Alice Williams, born from a first marriage.”

Gavin wrote the information on his computer, both surprised and glad that he did not have to ask questions: exchanges were not always fluid in a police station, and there were hundreds of questionnaires to try to get everything the police needed, but Luther was cooperative.

“And the missing person?”

“It’s my wife.”

Oh, he understood now: Luther had decided not to waste any time in endless questions-answers.

On his ring finger, a golden alliance was already skating, reminding Gavin that he kept his around his neck, at the end of a chain, for the moment.

“Kara?”

“Kara Andronikov, since we got married.”

“When it was?”

“Four years ago. But we’ve known each other for six years.”

A love almost as old as the one of Gavin and Connor.

Luther spoke without difficulty, but he sometimes had an absence that seemed to come from his chest, like a pinch of heart so dazzling that it paralyzed his tongue, then he chased this pain away, returning to the present moment.

A pain that Gavin understood, that he even shared, and this common point pushed him to sympathize immediately with the giant.

“When did Kara disappear?”

Gavin regretted this familiarity that had escaped him: he had never been so compassionate with those who came to testify, but Luther showed no sign of embarrassment.

“Kara has been missing for two days. I know it’s a long time, but the first night, I called and one of your colleagues assured me that you couldn’t report the disappearance of an adult within twenty-four hours.”

“Have you seen her leaving?”

“No, I haven’t, but she was at home, and— The house has no signs of breaking in, her coat and shoes were gone, and everything was in order.”

“Did you have a fight?”

Luther sighed: the policeman on the phone had asked him the same things, so Luther gave the detective the same answer:

“No, all the couples have problems, sir, uh— Detective Reed,” Luther corrected himself as he quickly read the name on the desk, “but Kara and I only quarreled if one or the other was mixing days for a medical appointment or forgot to buy toilet paper.” Luther tried to laugh, but the memory was more painful than amusing. “And then, there’s Alice. She’s eight years old and I raise her as my own daughter, but Kara would never leave her, she would have told her something—”

“Maybe she asked her to keep a secret?”

“The girl hasn’t slept for two nights because she cries a lot, detective. Last night, she came to sleep with me: she’s afraid that I leave her too. If she knew anything, she wouldn’t react like that.”

Gavin had to admit that Luther was right. The fear of abandonment is something for which children cannot lie.

“You talked about a first marriage: do you think there could be a connection? Does Kara still have contact with her first husband?”

“She and Todd Williams were married for three years, but it— it didn’t end well. He was a taxi driver, and with automatic cars, he lost his job. He now had— addiction problems.” Luther’s modesty was noble: few second husbands did much dignity to their predecessor. “Kara couldn’t trust him anymore, that’s why she asked to have sole custody of Alice.”

“You’ve never been threatened by Williams? Neither Kara, nor Alice, nor you?”

“No. Well, nothing serious: he can have Alice a weekend every month since two years, and we’ve heard two or three remarks, it’s true, but nothing that looks like a threat.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t do much against it—” Gavin sighed. “I imagine that before calling the police, you tried to contact your wife?”

“Her cell is still on, but she doesn’t pick up for anyone. What’s odd is that she left her charger at home—”

If Luther had the stature of a buffalo, he had beautiful doe eyes, as if they had always been teary. Gavin was not surprised to find misunderstanding in it, but it was more than that: there was also some kind of— some kind of turmoil?

The detective was thinking about the last questions, and one of them was going to confirm if Connor and Kara had one thing in common:

“Does Kara have— does she suffer from depression?”

“No, she doesn’t. She has had difficult times in her life, but she isn’t depressed and has never had— she has never had suicidal tendencies. In fact, she started to write a book since a few months, a project important to her, even when—”

Luther was ready to add something, but for the first time, he closed his mouth, with the unconscious reflex of shaking his head.

“Yes?”

“No, I was thinking of something, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Right now, Detective, I’m not sure of anything, except that Alice needs her mom and— and I too, I need Kara.”

Gavin remained silent, in case the witness would go back on his decision, but he got nothing more.

In the majority of cases, these disappearances were a need to relax or some sort of punishment for the other in the couple, so even if Gavin wanted to believe Luther, his job asked him to be more skeptical. Perhaps he would find Kara Andronikov at a sister’s or a cousin’s place, she would explain that her husband had cheated on her and—

But what about her daughter, then?

In the civil file, Kara’s photo featured a pretty woman. Fine and delicate, all the opposite of her husband. Even frozen, her gaze remained sweet and benevolent, protecting in a completely different way than Luther’s.

Psychological troubles could appear in the course of life, and perhaps Luther did not want to acknowledge that his beloved was sick;

Or was it Todd Williams? Did Kara have a score to settle with her first husband? Her cell phone was reachable even though she was not picking up, perhaps because it was in the possession of the former taxi driver?

In a file, Gavin listed all kinds of possibilities, ready to cross them out one after the other.

Now that the giant had left the police station, Tina could rush to the office of his friend. What did he tell him? Had he felt oppressed by this colossus? Did he suspect him?

“I know what they say, usually,” Gavin replied, still staring at the entrance where the giant had disappeared, “the spouse’s always the number one suspect, but not him— you know who he reminds me of?”

“Terry Crew with all his muscles in _Brooklyn 99_?”

“I swear to God, Tina, if you say another line from that old show, I put you in a cell.” To provoke him, she burst into a devilish laugh; she planned to do her imitation of Rosa later. “No, seriously, he makes me think of this character in one of Stephen King’s novels, the one that happens in a prison.”

“ _The Green Mile_?”

“Yeah. He looks like John Coffey.”

With his unhappy eyes and stature, Luther seemed to be a reincarnation of the King’s character, and like John Coffey, he seemed big enough to hide a secret he did not want to share.


	16. Are elves real?

Sleepy Hollow State Park

June 17, 2038

 

The sap, that oozed from the bark, radiated a violent and wild odor, making the forest a majestic sanctuary.

In the past, this corner of nature was in fact a beach for camping and fishing, but the lake became smaller and fishes that lived there were now protected species. The banks where water had been thrown for years had dried up, becoming bellies of earth where firs had planted their roots.

Hikers had succeeded fishermen, athletes had succeeded families.

As she waited for Luther who was greeting his colleagues in the next room, Alice watched the photos of that past she had never known. The fact that this place was greener today did not bother her: cradled by Celtic legends, the little girl preferred the height of the trees to the depths of waters. She saw no point in watching fishes dancing when she could hear the birds and branches singing.

The deep voice behind the door reassured Alice. Last night, Luther had explained to her that a policeman was going to search Kara, and he would do everything to bring her home. It was not a promise, but hope had given her enough strength to sleep alone.

With the disappearance of her mother, she could skip school until next Monday, and her stepfather had taken her to his workplace. The park would only open in two hours, so her visit was a true privilege. Her comrades’ parent all worked in cramped offices, their backs curved towards screens too big, but Luther, for his part, watched over this harbor, free and happy.

And mostly, he had a really nice jacket, although he was not wearing it nowadays, because of the high temperatures. The jacket was on Alice’s lap, so she could admire it as much as she wanted.

The name was sewn on one of the chest pockets, but the child could never say it correctly.

“Andro— And— Androki— Androkof—”

First, she had been a little jealous that her mom did not share her name anymore, but it did not matter anymore. Williams, that was a name she could pronounce. It would have been absurd for not being able to say one own name, right?

With a gesture of care, Alice folded the jacket and put it next to her; she would not need it today. On cooler days, she loved to wear it: she would have had three sisters, they could have worn it all together as the jacket was huge. But for this morning, the cloth could stay on the bench.

When the ranger came back in the hall, she placed her tiny hand in his, so big and solid. The day before yesterday, when he had tried to comfort her by stroking her hair, Alice remembered how the hand was shaking.

It is so hard to see an adult crying. Seeing their tears fall feels like seeing the world collapse.

A breeze was shaking the leaves over their heads, making the faint light scatter. Here, there was no traffic noise; it was so quiet that one could believe cars no longer existed.

From the top of a few hills, some towers of the surrounding towns were visible, but once in the woodland trails, civilization was forgotten.

Well, from the top of some hills, or once seated on Luther’s shoulders.

On her perch, Alice could watch the squirrels better: from time to time, she could see a red tail, making her utter a little cry of victory.

Luther held back a laugh: if the little one was so impressed by a squirrel, what would it be if she could meet an elf, since that was her dearest dream?

Elves were Alice’s angels, especially since her mother had started writing a fantasy novel.

Kara cultivated a great interest in everything related to imaginary universes. She had read so many sagas that she sometimes confused them, yet she always spoke of them with great passion. A little of this love had been passed on to her daughter, and Alice did not dream of princesses singing in pink robes, but instead riding on dragons with steel armor.

Without being able to capture all the details, she knew that the story her mother was laying down every evening on her keyboard was a story where dwarves, elves and humans shared a kingdom. Conflicts were forgotten in face of the growing shadow of a threat, so alliances were formed, as betrayals shifted hope. Sometimes, for the after-school snack, Alice asked Kara to read her a passage, and as an avid reader, the child was eager to know the rest, impressed by so much imagination.

A continuation that had almost disappeared when Kara had fallen ill, last spring. These kingdoms without cards had been close to die too.

It had been a troubled time for the family, especially for Alice because of all these terms difficult to understand. Especially that one, obstructive pyelonephritis, as complicated to pronounce as Andronikov.

The little girl had simply understood that one of her mother’s organs was not working very well, and had had to be replaced. After a long period of tiredness, Kara went back tapping away on her keyboard, and Alice was doing everything to cheer and comfort her.

To motivate herself as well, the child was watching all the trees she was crossing, looking for a door to an elven garden or the havens of another time.

Still perched on Luther’s shoulders, she finally asked to walk on her own, eager to begin her quest.

Every leaf, every flower was precious and could give Kara enough inspiration when she came back.

Before Alice went away, Luther called her back to ask her:

“Alice, what are the rules in the forest?”

“I don’t throw my garbage in the nature.” Alice started, straightening her shoulders, taking her recitation to heart. “I only drink the water in my bottle. If I meet animals, I mustn’t scare them, and if I want to pee, I find a place that’s not sloping and far from ditches.”

This answer satisfied the ranger, so he allowed her to go for a walk.

She may not have been his daughter, Alice had nonetheless this tenderness that all children have for nature. Tenderness that Luther had kept even adult.

In her pocket, Alice had a small cellphone, one of this new collection suitable for children with three or four phone numbers at the most. However, Alice had five: her mother’s, daddy’s, police’s, firefighters’ and Luther’s.

The path was irregular; pebbles and leaves overflowed on the road, so she took care not to slip on them. When she stopped, she could hear the ripples coming from some hidden streams. The park would open only in two hours and for now, she had the forest for her. In the absence of hikers, she might have a better chance for meeting an elf?

Beneath her feet, the earth was soft, but it would dry up at the moment the sun will plant its rays in it. Alice had sunglasses stuck in the collar of her t-shirt, but the tinted glass altered the shades of the forest too much, so she did not put them.

The more she heard the murmurs of the water, the more her bladder began to weigh. Alice looked around: no need to worry about being seen, the park was still empty, but there were two rules to follow, so it was necessary to find flat terrain, far from ditches.

The need became so pressing that she felt like she was carrying an ocean under her belly button; she tried to hurry, without much success—

Luther would not be happy to learn that she had not been vigilant, but she feared he would not be happy neither if she could not find a spot in time.

She gave up her sermon with a hint of guilt, and stepped out of the way to a slope that was above a stream. She leaned on roots that protruded above the ground, hanging on a rather low branch. Grimacing, with her free hand, Alice unbuttoned her jeans. Crouching would be a real ordeal with a raised arm, but she had no choice.

The most important thing was not to fall, so Luther would never know that she had not followed the rules.

When she had finished, Alice managed to climb to reach the road again. The little girl was proud of her: she had not fallen, had not hurt herself and, the best, had succeeded to find a spot before it would be too late.

A noise from the hollow ditch made her jump. It was a rustle caused by something moving under the leaves. A squirrel? A mouse? Or something else? Alice leaned over, using the root as support again. She was on the lookout for an orange tail or, why not, a brown head with black and shiny eyes.

The movements ceased, then resumed, as hesitant.

Suddenly, the child was scared: she did not know if any snakes lived here, but anyway, she did not want to check that fact.

Alice grabbed the branch above her head and used it as the rung of a ladder to pull herself up to the path.

Now, in spite of the stones strewing the road, she began to run, impatient to climb on the shoulders of Luther.

It was not a snake hiding under the leaves, although the form might have been similar: it was a livid arm where a few bruises had bloomed. The fingers, with jerky movements, sank into the loose earth, and the orphan member was struggling to move forward. Necrophagous insects followed the furrow, guided by the flesh blackened with decay, but when they approached their feast, they were surprised to see that it was still moving, animated by a mechanism that stank iron.

Disappointed, the burying beetles, abdomen overflowing with larvae, had to turn back in search of a more tranquil corpse.


	17. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's say that sort of prologue is over. Things are going to start up, darlings, before fucking up.  
> Heh.

Detroit Police Station

June 17, 2038

 

The detective was tracing the path given by Kara Andronikov’s cellphone’s geolocator.

Everything was recorded: hours, places, distances— still, some waves had disturbed the routing, interrupting the follow-up. Even today, technology could lose reliability because of some hazards, but nothing that could prevent the investigation.

Since the day before, Gavin was invested in this disappearance.

He had written down the addresses, but Kara had not gone to Todd Williams’s house. Maybe they met somewhere else? This track was too obvious, but he would give it all his attention until it could be dismissed.

In the meantime, he kept thinking about that sudden silence in the middle of Luther’s story, that silence that could say so many things at once.

The man had kept information for him, perhaps out of shyness, perhaps out of fear, but it was a common reaction: relatives noticed changes and tried to explain them logically, judging them unworthy of being noted in a police report.

His cellphone vibrated on the edge of the desk and, thinking of a coincidence, Gavin thought it was Luther who had went back on his decision, that he had decided to talk to him. When he grabbed the phone, the shock was violent.

Connor.

A message from Connor!

_“So if you want to love me,_

_Then darlin’ don’t refrain,_

_Or I’ll just end up walkin’_

_In the cold November rain.”_

All the pressure that had built up on his shoulders suddenly collapsed. His lungs could breathe again, his heart could beat again. Even the smallest muscle in his body began to tremble, joining the earthquake of joy that was shaking him completely.

He had to firm his fingers on the phone, or it would fall.

Gavin was ready to call his man, just to listen to his voice he had not heard in the last two weeks. But could Connor talk? Would Gavin even manage to speak?

A second message made the cell vibrate again.

_“Okay, I confess: I checked the lyrics online, to make sure I didn’t make a mistake.”_

No one was looking at his desk, yet Gavin was struggling to keep his tears from falling. The words, written or spoken, could not explain how much he had missed Connor; he stared at the screen, indecisive but relieved.

A third message arrived, adding to this happiness.

_“Thanks for all your messages, Gavin. I missed you.”_

The bottles carried by the sea had arrived safely, and the intention had been guessed. Gavin laughed a bit and a tear fell, but he ignored it, answering:

 _“_ I _missed you, you slept for 15 days.”_

_“Yet I’m still exhausted.”_

_“How long do you have to stay at the clinic?”_

The screen of his computer, ignored, had gone to sleep, and the tablet had been rejected with an unconscious gesture.

Connor’s response made him jump:

_“Actually, I’m in the taxi.”_

He was back. He was coming home.

Gavin jumped from his chair and rushed to Tina’s office. He muddled in his request, but Tina understood the point: could she take over the investigation for today as Connor was on his way home?

She uttered a delighted cry, and told him to go away fast: she would take care of the disappearance for today, he could find his man.

Before losing sight of her colleague, she added:

“But you owe me a meal, Gavin!”

The detective promised to make a feast, then he hurried to Fowler’s office. Luckily, the captain, alone and the phone resting on the desk, was sipping a cup of tea. So, Gavin took the opportunity to said him:

“Captain! Connor’s awake, he’s coming back today!”

Fowler did not have time to rest his cup: he understood that Gavin needed his day and did not hold him back. Even if he wanted to, he could not have. Anyway, from his office, he shouted to the detective to give him news, which Gavin also promised.

Everyone had heard the news and they were all eager to find out how Lieutenant Anderson was doing.

If the car was parked in its place, in the parking lot under their building, Gavin had not taken it back since the accident, the steering wheel still giving him cold sweats, but now, he regretted this decision: the subway was way too slow. Although he continued to exchange messages with Connor, the path seemed endless.

In the apartment, all the shutters were open and, for Connor’s sake, Gavin checked that certain elements were in order. The cutlery was stacked properly and the shirts were organized by color. The plaid on the armchair was folded in a manner almost similar to that of Connor’s. The day before, he had changed the sheets, so Gavin congratulated himself on his instinct.

Nothing was perfect enough for someone as perfectionist as Connor, but it would be fine.

When Gavin heard the front door open, he had the presence of mind to remove his wedding ring and hide it in the back pocket of his jeans, the chain clinking against the ring.

As worried as Freddy, he slowly approached the hall, his throat knotted: he wanted to cry, both because of the feeling of joy and sadness.

Connor stood on the threshold of their apartment, like an illusion, a fantasy. And what if Gavin ended up going crazy? What if Connor could not go back?

“Oh my God—”

Gavin could easily recognize his partner’s features, this pretty mouth, these dark eyes, these moles so numerous, but Connor had lost weight, his beard had grown, and he seemed exhausted. Terribly exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes were scary, gray instead of purple, making him as pale as a dead man.

Connor also had a hard time believing he was back home. His palm touched the wood of the door, of the furniture at the entrance, where they used to put their keys, and finally, it landed against Gavin’s trembling back.

Being careful not to touch the injured shoulder, Gavin hugged him, unable to control the chills that were shaking him. It was late spring, the sun was bright, and yet he felt so cold—

The bodies had been annihilated by this event, and unable to stand further, they slid gently to the ground, still supporting each other. On the ground, Connor curled up against Gavin, knees bent under his man’s leg, pressed against his shoulder. He wanted to raise his still-sore arm, but finally let it hang, feeling that the sutures were pulling and that the muscles were still healing.

Gavin was frightened: under his palms, he felt how much Connor had lost weight. The ribs stumbled against his fingers, almost fragile.

“I’m so sorry, Connor.”

His mind recalled Hank’s question. Gavin confessed: _he_ was driving, it was him, who had guided the car to the slope.

“It’s not your fault, Gavin.”

His voice, heavy with fatigue, seemed deeper.

Connor had closed his eyes, wondering how one could sleep for two weeks and be so tired. A presence suddenly grazed his calf, and he jumped, noticing the strange black cat, his damaged ear visible in the coal fur.

“Hey you, who are you?”

“He’s Freddy. Freddy Krueger.”

Connor approved the name, laughing as his fingers began to scratch behind the intact ear.

“He’s adorable.”

His smile was a little sad, and Gavin asked him if something was wrong.

“I lost something in the accident,” Connor sighed, and Gavin immediately guessed what he was talking about.

“Something important?”

“Yes. Well, it was— Anyway. We could’ve lost much more.”

“Maybe you’ll find it again?”

Gavin felt the alliance under his buttock, thinking about how to approach this subject. For the moment, Connor needed rest: it was enough emotional lift for today.

“I doubt it, Gavin, but it doesn’t matter. Like I said, we could’ve lost so much more.”

His back still hurt him, otherwise, Gavin would have carried him to the bathroom, but he lent him at least one shoulder, his arm around his waist. The jacket Connor wore was the same as the one on the day of the accident, and the clinic, if they had tried to wash it, had not been able to clean the browned blood off.

Gavin wanted to help him undress before his shower, but Connor assured him that he could do it. He had this curious gesture, that of grabbing his own shirt, as if he was afraid that his partner would not listen and insist.

The wound was surely horrible to see: the blistered flesh, either reddened or blued by the impact, had to be held by metal staples.

In any case, Connor will have to wear the bandage covered with plastic for a minimum of two or three days, and it was a good thing, as he did not want his man to see it.

As the water flowed from the bathroom, a small room adjoining the bedroom and only separated by a polished glass wall, Gavin closed the shutters, chasing the sun. Yet rays persisted and brought a golden penumbra in their nest.

Of course, Connor was tired, but Gavin remembered a detail, and as he watched the silhouette getting dry, asked him:

“Did they give you any medicine?”

“I think so. It’s strange, all my memories are fuzzy—”

Gavin opened the bag, grimacing as he felt the black leather hardened with dried blood under his fingers, and searched inside. He found three boxes of drugs identical to those that the clinic had left him before. Stubborn, the detective had not spoken to his doctor about it, after all, he felt much better since he had got rid of them, so he had not seen the interest of mentioning them.

“We should throw them away.” Gavin suggested, when Connor sat on the edge of the bed.

He may have been exhausted, he had shaved anyway. Now, Gavin could see how his cheeks were hollower than usual, and he remembered he had to make an apple pie.

“Why? It’s a treatment prescribed by the hospital and—”

“That’s some fucking drugs, Connor. They gave me the same shit. I was exhausted when I returned, but I didn’t take it and I felt really better soon after. Let’s throw them in the trash.”

“That’s so you,” Connor murmured, “rebel to the end.”

It was true that Connor was always wise and obedient. If the clinic had left him three boxes of medicine with the dosage indicated on it, then Connor would scrupulously follow the instructions until the last pill.

“And that’s so you as well: blindly following the orders.”

“You never complain when it’s yours.”

Gavin caressed his cheek, disturbed by the fragility of the face he wanted to recognize. He asked him to promise to talk to their doctor.

“You’ll see Shinohara, and I want you to ask her what she thinks about it, ok?”

Connor nodded. He suddenly asked him if he was going back to work, and when he heard that Gavin had his day off, he felt relieved: sleep was going to knock him out at once, he knew that, but he needed Gavin near him.

Even after the shower, even under the sheets, his legs were still shaking. Gavin kept Connor’s hand against his lips, sad and glad at the same time. Even Freddy could not break the silence; his purr seemed to be too far away.

“I was so fucking scared, Connor.”

Hearing this broken voice, tears began to flow. Connor was already huddled against Gavin, but he had enough strength to tighten his grip.

“Me too.”

They were shaking like they were in January, but as they repeated that they loved each other, the spasms eventually disappeared.

Finally, safe in the bed, pressed against Gavin, Connor fell asleep, a quiet smile upon the mouth inspired by all these statements.

He had missed Gavin, but he missed even more hearing that he was loved by him.


End file.
